Js\^L 


LIFE     IS    LIFE 


AND  OTHER 


TALES  AND  EPISODES 


LIFE     IS     LIFE 


AND  OTHER 


TALES    AND    EPISODES 


BY 


ZACK 


Gr  wen  dot 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1898 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LIFE  is  LIFE, 1 

THE  FAILURE  OF  FLIPPEBTY,       .        .        .        .        .     121 

THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL, 145 

THE  ENGLISH  GIBL'S  CHRISTMAS  PRESENTS,        .        .157 
THE  BED-HAIRED  MAN'S  DREAM,        .        .        .        .167 

THE  STONE  PINE, .     225 

THE  STORM, 233 

AT  THE  STROKE  OF  THE  HOUR,    .        .        .        .        .    245 
TRAVELLING  JOE,          .         .  .        .         .         .     255 

EAB  VINCH'S  WIFE, 273 

WIDDER  VLINT,    . 293 

DAVE,  .  .    307 


O     4    O      C      i      f-h 

3404.16 


LIFE    IS   LIFE 


PART    I 

CHIEFLY  CONCERNING  THE  MAN  ATTER 

CHAPTER    I 

PAX  INTRANTIBUS  was  carved  on  the 
great  gates  of  Thursby  Chase  ;  but  they 
sagged  on  their  rusty  hinges,  and  looked  as 
if  few  cared  to  put  their  greeting  to  the  test. 
The  old  Jacobean  house,  visible  from  a  bend 
in  the  avenue,  had  an  air  of  fallen  fortunes ; 
across  the  sleepy  alleys  grass  crept  undis 
turbed,  and  in  the  old-world  gardens  old- 
world  flowers  stretched  up,  cramped  and  cold, 
to  the  gaze  of  the  October  sun.  Beech  woods 
lined  the  back  of  the  hill  on  which  the  house 
stood ;  below,  in  the  valley,  the  river  sidled, 
till  the  trees  in  their  turn  were  displaced  by 
gorse,  then  again  by  homely  arable  or  quiet- 
faced  pasture.  Leaning  against  a  stile,  close 
to  the  river  bank,  was  a  thick-set,  shrewd- 


4  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

faced  man,  dressed  in  corduroys  and  a  brown 
velveteen  jacket  with  deep,  wide  pockets. 
The  sound  of  a  sudden  shot  echoed  across 
the  river  from  the  plantations  opposite,  and 
the  man  turned  his  head  in  that  direction, 
and  listened  attentively. 

"  I  didn't  know  that  Sir  John  wor  going 
to  shoot  they  coverts  to-day,"  he  exclaimed. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  boy  of  about  four 
teen  broke  through  the  undergrowth,  jumped 
the  stile,  and  flung  a  pheasant  at  the  man's  feet. 

"  Wilkie,"  he  said,  "  that  sneak  Bayles  saw 
me  shoot  this." 

"  A  phaysant,  and  a  fine  one,"  "Wilkie  re 
marked,  turning  the  bird  slowly  over  with 
his  foot. 

"  What  do  you  advise  ? "  asked  the  boy, 
with  a  strong  desire  for  maturer  wisdom. 

"  Well,  yer  honour,  if  you  vallers  my  ad 
vice,"  Wilkie  answered,  "you'll  ate  un  fust 
and  say  he  wor  a  rabbut  arter." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  the  boy,  a  little  taken 
aback  ;  "  do  you  think  that  is  a  good  plan  ? " 

"  The  best  I  knows  on,  Master  Humphrey," 
the  man  replied,  "  and  now  I  reckon  I'll  be 
moving." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  5 

"  Won't  you  stop  and  eat  some  of  it  your 
self  ?  "  Humphrey  asked,  with  a  vague  feel 
ing  that  the  impending  feast  might  be  pleas- 
anter  if  partaken  of  in  company. 

"  I  reckon  not,  yer  honour,  I  reckon  not," 
the  man  answered,  moving  away.  "  The  bird 
once  took,  other  folk's  poaching  is  best  left 
alone."  He  returned,  however,  after  a  few 
moments — "  Ther's  one  thing,"  he  said  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  "  burn  the  feathers  for  all 
you're  worth."  Having  given  this  parting 
piece  of  advice  he  disappeared,  seeming  to 
melt  into  the  trees. 

"  Look  here,"  the  boy  called  after  him,  "  if 
you'll  see  me  through,  the  next  time  I  get 
half  a  sovereign  I'll  go  shares  with  you." 
There  was  a  faint  rustle,  and  Wilkie  thrust 
his  face  out  through  the  undergrowth. 

"Make  it  five-and-six  and  a  pipe,  yer 
honour,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  take  the  bird 
home  and  eat  it  myself." 

"  Will  you  ?  "  replied  the  boy  in  a  relieved 
voice.  "  It  was  a  clean  shot,"  he  added,  with 
a  natural  desire  for  commendation,  as  Wilkie 
dropped  the  pheasant  into  one  of  his  capa 
cious  pockets. 


6  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  'Twor  so,"  the  man  answered.  "  You're 
the  moral  o'  what  yer  father,  the  Cap'en,  wor 
as  a  lad.  He  wud  always  a  deal  rather  poach 
Sir  John's  coverts  to  shoot  his  own." 

"You  think  I'm  like  him?"  Humphrey 
replied,  glowing.  "  Tell  me  about  my  father, 
Wilkie." 

"  You've  heard  the  tale  many  a  time,  yer 
honour,"  the  man  answered  with  an  indul 
gent  smile. 

"  No  matter,"  said  Humphrey ;  "  tell  me 
everything,  from  the  beginning  straight  on." 

Wilkie  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  spat- 
on  the  ground,  and  rubbed  the  spot  clean  with 
his  boot.  "  Folks  say,"  he  began  after  a 
pause,  "  that  the  Thursbys  an'  Thursby  have 
belonged  to  wan  tother  time  out  o'  mind  ; 
but  they've  bin  a  free-handed  lot,  'ave  the 
Thursbys,  an'  wi'  all  rispact  to  yer,  Master 
Humphrey,  the  place  ain't  what  it  wor; 
'tain't  possible,  becase  most  of  the  money's 
gone,  an'  the  land  arter  it ;  when  the  money 
goes  the  land  vallers,  an'  thic  mortal  soon. 
Happen  the  Squire  thought  on  that,  baing 
alles  tumble  set  on  the  Cap'en,  yer  father, 
marrying  money ;  but,  bless  'ee,  he  niver 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  7 

tooked  to  it,  niver.  There  wor  Miss  Mary 
now,  the  darter  of  old  Sir  John,  over  to 
Trevorton,  folks  say  as  how  she  wor  most 
powerful  willin'  towards  yer  honour's  father  ; 
but  he  wudn't  hear  o'  it,  and  wan  night  he 
an'  the  old  Squire  coonied  to  wuds ;  they  wor 
tumble  masterful,  both  o'  'em.  Us  niver 
knawed  zackly  what  wor  said,  ouy  Mr. 
Henchel,  ha  that  ba  butler  inter  the  house, 
tulled  me  a  score  o'  times  as  how  ha  wor 
staudin'  in  the  hall  when  the  Cap'en  coomed 
droo. 

"  i  Pack  my  things,  Henchel,'  ha  zed,  i  I 
must  git  out  of  this.' 

"  Wull,  wull,  the  Cap'en  ha  wint  to  Aus- 
tralie  and  died  ther :  a  quare,  lonesome  place, 
as  I've  heard  tell,  wi'  a  deal  o'  nater  about  it. 
I  windered  to  mesulf,  as  I  drapped  inter  the 
charch  this  morning  as  they  were  a-openin' 
tha  vault  for  his  honour  Squire  Bellew's 
corpse,  I  windered  to  mesulf  wuther  the 
Cap'en  wor  slap  in'  sound  over  to  furren  parts, 
wi'  maybe  no  stone  a-tap  o'  him  to  keep  him 
comfortable ;  but  ther,  ther,  he  wor  alles  wan 
o'  yer  ventursome  wans;  happen  he  wild  as 
lief  be  up  an'  walkin'  as  bide  quiet."  Wilkie 


8  LIFE  IS  LIFE 

was  silent  a  moment.  "  Tha  Almighty  ba  win- 
derf ul  fair-handed  takin'  Him  all  in  all,"  he 
continued  meditatively.  "Ther's  the  ginel- 
folks  as  has  ther  hatchments  an'  ther  stones, 
an'  there's  the  pore  man  wi'  nort  maybe  but 
a  daisy  or  so  to  mark  un;  but  ha  lies  out 
under  the  sky  a  deal  nearer  the  Ressuraction : 
ha  won't  'ave  no  call  to  'aminer  this  way  an' 
thic  when  the  last  trump  sounds,  for  they 
bury  him  mortal  shaller  nowadays,  wi'out 
much  more  than  a  sod  twix  ha  and  his  Maker." 

There  was  a  long  pause ;  the  boy  waited 
with  considerable  patience ;  at  last,  however, 
he  interposed. 

"But  you  haven't  told  all,  Wilkie,"  he 
said — "  not  the  awfully  interesting  part." 

"  An'  what  part  ba  thic,  Master  Humphrey? " 

"Oh,  you  know,  where  I  come  in,  and 
that !  " 

A  gleam  of  amusement  flitted  across  the 
man's  face.  "  Shall  I  tull  'ee  about  the 
poachin',  or  jest  drap  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

Humphrey  hastily  considered  the  question. 
"  Tell  all,"  he  answered,  "  but  cut  the  poach 
ing  rather  short." 

"  Wull,"  Wilkie  continued, "  wan  Christmas 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  9 

night  a  matter  o'  dree  years  arter  thic, — I 
minds  the  night  wull  becase  that  Mucksey 
laid  hold  o'  me  jest  as  I  drapped  upon  a 
hare,  an'  I  guv  the  piddlin'  lump  a  bit  of  a 
scat  an'  brauk  his  arm." 

"  I  think  we'll  skip  the  poaching,"  said  the 
boy. 

"As  yer  wull,  Master  Humphrey,"  Wilkie 
answered;  "but  the  tale  'ull  be  all  tags 
wi'out  it.  Happen  the  best  knawed  road's 
the  shortest  when  coomes  to  heavy  carting." 

"  Fire  ahead,"  said  the  boy. 

"  I  reckon  'twud  ba  as  well  to  ern  back 
to  the  beginning,"  Wilkie  remarked,  and  re 
commenced  accordingly.  "Wan  Christmas 
night " 

"Oh,  bother  the  poaching!  leave  it  out 
altogether,"  Humphrey  interposed. 

"  Wiser  not,  Master  Humphrey,  wiser  not." 

The  boy  flung  himself  back  impatiently  on 
the  coarse  grass.  "  Tell  what  you  like,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  only  hurry  up." 

"Wull,"  Wilkie  continued,  "  the  Squire  wor 
mortal  put  out  about  Mucksey's  arm.  They 
vussled  me  straight  up  to  the  house  an'  inter 
the  buk-room.  I  wor  always  afeared  o'  buks, 


10  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

they  ba    such  quietsome   things ;  ther's    no 
tailing  what  may  be  inside  o'  'em. 

"  *  Well,  Wilkie,'  says  the  Squire,  as  soon 
as  they  great  gapnesting l  gawkins  had  been 
sent  right  about  vace,  *  what's  this  I  hears 
about  'eev? ' 

"  i  Happen,  sir/  I  answered,  '  'tis  the  break 
ing  o'  Mat  Mucksey's  arm  yer  mean ;  'twor 
nort  but  a  bit  o'  a  westerpoop 2  I  guved  him. 
They  Muckseys  ba  a  vaniily  o'  snippits  ivery 
wan  o'  'em.'  I  stapped  an'  fetched  a  bit  o' 
breath,  cuz  'twor  mortal  hard  to  find  vitty 
wuds. 

"  <  Wull,  Wilkie,'  zed  the  Squire. 

"  '  Yer  honour,'  I  tummled  out,  l  'tworn't 
no  drab  o'  a  rabbit  I  wor  arter  that  gaws 
dabbin'  along  wi'  his  nose  to  the  ground.' 

u  <  Wull,  Wilkie,'  zed  the  Squire  again. 
I  ain't  no  friend  to  your  varigated  talkers, 
but  dang  me,  Master  Humphrey,  if  that 
there  l  Well,  Wilkie,'  wasn't  a  deal  more 
puzzlecacious. 

"  '  Yer  honour,'  I  zed,  '  ther's  thic  about 
a  hare  that  draws  a  man  on ;  happen  'twor 
a  hare,  happen  'tworn't.' 

1  Open-mouthed.  a  Knock. 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  11 

"  Then  all  to  wance  I  seemed  to  find  my 
tongue  like. 

"  '  'Tain't  the  aitin'  o'  it,  yer  honour,  but 
jest  the  doing  o'  it,  that  ba  so  powerful  kin- 
diddlin'.1  When  coomes  to  dealin'  wi'  natur  a 
man  needs  ba  mortal  fingersome.  Ther's  yer 
snare  now — none  too  high,  none  too  low — an' 
the  binding  o'  yer  bit  o'  phaysant's  grass. 
Belike  'tis  a  phaysant  hisself  yer  arter,  then 
yer  must  look  to  yer  cord,  cuz  as  sure  as 
vath  ha'll  ern  along  the  ground  afore  rising. 
Yer  ginelfolks,  yer  pays  yer  pun's  ;  yer  buys 
yer  phaysant  eggs;  yer  lays  down  yer  par 
tridges,  and  yer  rings  'em  round  wi'  kapers, 
an'  yer  reckons  yer  have  most  graspit  crea 
tion.  But  natur  her  slips  droo  yer  fingers 
like  water  droo  a  sieve.' 

"  The  Squire  he  turned  away  to  the  fire. 
4  Wilkie,'  ha  zed,  sorter  slow,  i  if  I  let  'ee  off 
this  time,  wull  'ee  gie  up  poachin'  ? ' 

"It  kind  o'  coomed  to  me  tempting  like 
to  say  '  Yes,'  though  I  knawed  sich  promises 
didn't  be  held;  but  ther  ba  a  trustdrawsome- 
ness  about  real  ginelfolks  that  makes  a  man 
unusual  truthful. 

1  Enticing. 


12  LIFE  IS  LIFE 

"  '  Yer  honour,'  I  zed,  '  poachin'  is  a  kin- 
diddlin'1  thing — a  kindidcllin'  thing.' 

"  Then  he  tarned  an'  looked  inter  my  eyes, 
right  down  droo  me,  and  I  felt  my  heart 
give  a  great  thud.  i  Wilkie,'  ha  zed,  '  ba  'ee 
afeared  to  be  a  man  ? ' 

"'Yer  honour,'  I  answered,  "ave  'ee  iver 
swore  to  'eezulf  not  to  do  a  thing,  an'  kind 
o'  zeed  'eezulf  despisablelike  an'  low  if  'ee 
shud  do  it,  an'  then  gone  strat  an'  dooed  it 
jest  the  same?  Ther's  that  in  natur,  yer 
honour,  as  won't  be  drove ;  an'  I  reckon  the 
Almighty  'lows  for  thic  when  Ha  coomes  to 
make  up  a  man's  settling.' ' 

The  old  poacher  paused  and  fell  into  a  pro 
found  reverie  ;  but  the  boy's  face  was  full  of 
suppressed  excitement. 

"  Go  on,  Wilkie,"  he  said ;  "  you  are  com 
ing  to  the  best  part  of  all." 

"  Wull,"  Wilkie  continued,  as  he  slowly 
loosened  the  tobacco  in  the  bottom  of  his 
pipe  with  his  knife,  "I  hadn't  much  more 
than  laid  out  my  tongue  for  the  next  wild 
when  Henchel  coomed  in  to  say  as  how  Dick 
Atter — he  as  wor  the  Cap'en's  man — wanted 

1  Enticing. 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  13 

to  speak  to  the  Squire  most  uncommon  par 
ticular.  I  saw  his  honour  turn  a  bit  whitish. 

" '  Let  him  coome  in,'  he  says,  windervul 
unconsarned,  an'  in  Dick  coomed  accordin'. 
His  vace  was  mortal  dyver'd,1  an'  looked 
older  by  a  good  half -score  years.  He  wor 
karryin'  a  quare  dumped  up  sorter  skiddik ; 
but  ha  brought  up  his  right  hand  to  his  face, 
military  fashion,  turrible  respactful. 

" '  What  do  'ee  want  wi'  me,  my  man  ? ' 
axed  his  honour. 

"  Dick  he  tooked  a  packet  o'  sommat  from 
his  coat  pocket ;  'twor  tied  this  way  an'  thic, 
an'  sealed  most  all  over. 

" '  The  Cap'en  said  I  wor  to  give  'ee  this, 
sir,'  he  said. 

"  His  honour  cut  the  string,  but  his  vingers 
didn't  zim  none  too  clever  at  untying  the 
packet  for  all  o'  thic.  Arter  a  bit,  what  shud 
tummil  out  but  the  Cap'en's  gold  watch  and 
chain,  an'  a  ring  ha  used  to  wear  on  the  little 
finger  of  his  left  hand  ! 

"  The  Squire  he  guved  a  great  start,  an7  his 
face  went  reglar  chalk-white.  i  Where  is 
your  master  ? '  he  axed,  sharplike. 

1  Worn. 


14  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  <  Dead,  sir,'  said  Dick. 

"His  honour  walked  to  the  winder  an' 
stood  an'  stared  droo  the  trees  at  the  Black 
Swan  lake  that  lay  sorter  gapnesting  up  at 
the  sky.  Arter  a  bit  he  tarned  round. 

"  '  Ther  wor  no  message — nothing  ? '  he 
axed. 

"  Dick  put  the  big  bundle  down  on  a  chair, 
an'  arter  a  deal  of  unwinding  o'  stuff,  what 
shud  plump  out  but  yer  honour's  self — a  little 
snip  o'  a  chile  o'  two  year  old,  an'  as  sound 
aslape  as  a  mole  o'  Christmas. 

" '  The  Cap'en  said  I  wor  to  tell  'ee,  sir, 
that  ha  be  a  Thursby  an'  a  ginelman,'  said 
Dick,  tumble  respactful. 

"  I  wor  that  tooked  aback.  '  Begore  ! '  I 
rapped  out,  the  wud  slipping  droo  my  teeth 
unconscious.  His  honour  tarned  round ;  I 
reckon  ha  had  most  forgot  I  wor  ther.  i  Wait 
in  the  servants'  hall  till  I  ring  for  'ee,'  said 
ha ;  an'  I  wor  f oced  to  go,  tho'  I  wud  'ave 
gied  a  deal  to  'ave  bided." 

"  It  was  an  awful  pity  you  said  l  Begore  ! ' 
just  then,  Wilkie,"  the  boy  exclaimed. 

"  'Twor  so,  Master  Humphrey." 

There  was  a  pause.       "And  my  mother, 


LIFE  IS  LIFE  15 

Wilkie,"  the  boy  asked,  "you  never  heard 
anything  about  her  ?  " 

"  Niver  nort  whatsoiver,  yer  honour." 

"And  Atter  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Dick  ?  "  the  old  poacher  exclaimed  in 
an  aggrieved  voice. 

"  What  did  he  do  ?  " 


"Yes." 

Wilkie  withdrew  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  spat  on  the  ground.  "  Hiked1  away  an7 
niver  zed  a  wud  to  wan  o'  us,"  he  answered, 
returning  the  pipe  to  his  mouth  and  chewing 
the  stem  with  badly  suppressed  wrath.  There 
was  a  pause,  and  the  old  poacher  slowly  puffed 
himself  back  into  a  calmer  mood. 

"  'Tworn't  much  loss,  ther  wor  more  beer 
for  better  folk,"  he  exclaimed,  and  relapsed 
again  into  silence. 

The  boy  picked  up  a  bit  of  moss,  rubbing 
it  to  pieces  between  his  fingers.  "  Why  do 
you  think  Dick  Atter  went  away  like  that  ?  " 
he  asked  at  length. 

Wilkie  brought  his  right  hand  down  on  his 
thigh  with  a  resounding  whack. 

1  Went. 


16  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"  Many  a  time  I've  axed  meself  thic,  Mas 
ter  Humphrey,"  lie  said.  "  Happen  he  wor 
afeared  of  that  stratch-gallip  tongue  o'  his." 

Humphrey  jumped  to  his  feet  with  a  quick 
impatient  movement. 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

The  old  poacher  eyed  him  standing  there, 
a  well-built  lad  enough,  broad  at  the  shoulders, 
slim  at  the  hips,  the  face  keen,  sensitive,  with  a 
promise  of  will  in  the  cut  of  the  chin.  Wilkie 
seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking,  then  changed 
his  mind,  once  more  withdrawing  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth,  examined  the  old  clay  from 
bowl  to  stem  before  refixing  it  in  a  gap  be 
tween  two  formidable,  yellow,  time-worn  teeth. 

"Dick  Atter's  a  rapscallions  lump;  that  ba 
my  'pinion,"  he  remarked  at  last. 

"  You  always  say  that,  Wilkie,"  the  boy 
answered  with  visible  impatience,  "  but  you 
never  tell  me  why  you  think  so." 

"  When  a  man's  rapscallious,  ha's  rapscal- 
lious,  Master  Humphrey." 

"  What  has  he  done  ?  " 

"  Ther  ain't  no  call  to  say  what  ha's  dooed. 
I  said  ha  wor  a  rapscallious  lump;  them  wor 
my  wuds,  Master  Humphrey." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  17 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  mounting  colour, 
"  and  you're  hitting  a  man  that  can't  defend 
himself — hitting  below  the  belt,  too." 

"  Belike  yis ;  belike  no." 

"  Wilkie,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  surprised  out 
of  his  anger,  "  I  don't  believe  you  understand 
what  I  mean  by  hitting  below  the  belt !  " 

"  Belike  yis ;  belike  no,"  repeated  the  old 
poacher  with  a  stolid  indifference  that  Hum 
phrey  found  extremely  irritating. 

u  It's — it's  dishonourable,"  he  stuttered, 
and  coloured  at  repeating  the  insult  in  cooler 
blood. 

"  Happen  it  ba ;  happen  it  baint." 

Wilkie's  indifference  once  more  set  the 
boy's  rage  floundering.  "  If  a  man  called  me 
dishonourable,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  would 
knock  him  down  like  a  shot." 

The  old  poacher's  eyes  twinkled.  "Law 
bless  'ee,  Master  Humphrey,"  he  answered, 
"  I  let  'ee  say  yer  say,  yer  ain't  nought  but 
a  snip  o'  a  chil'." 

This  new  view  of  the  situation  somewhat 
disconcerted  Humphrey,  and  he  changed  the 
subject. 

"  I  hope  some  day  to  meet  Atter  myself," 

2 


18  LIFE   IS    LIFE 

he  said;  "I've  an  awful  lot  to  thank  him 
for." 

Wilkie  searched  in  the  tail-pocket  of  his 
old  brown  velveteen  coat  for  an  imaginary 
handkerchief ;  finding  none,  he  blew  his  nose 
in  a  more  primitive  fashion.  This,  the  sole 
comment  on  Humphrey's  remark,  the  boy 
found  out  of  all  proportion  irritating. 

"Well,  Wilkie,"  he  said,  in  an  annoyed 
voice. 

"  Nought,  Master  Humphrey." 

"I  think  Atter  is  a  brick  myself,"  the 
annoyance  visibly  on  the  increase. 

No  answer.  The  old  poacher  lifting  up  his 
left  foot,  examined  the  sole  of  the  boot  with 
minute  attention. 

Humphrey's  annoyance  went  full  bound  to 
wards  the  brim.  "  There's  nothing  I  wouldn't 
do  for  Atter  if  I  had  the  luck  to  meet  him," 
he  exclaimed. 

Again  no  answer.  Wilkie  transferring  his 
scrutiny  from  the  left  to  the  right  boot,  the 
examination  being  if  possible  more  minute. 

"  I  will  just  tell  you  what,"  said  the  boy 
in  a  fierce  voice,  "  the  very  instant  I'm  of  age, 
• — the  very  instant,  mind, — I  will  go  straight 


LIFE   IS    LIFE  19 

away,  find  Atter,  and  thank  him.  I  should  like 
to  hear  what  you Ve  got  to  say  to  that,Wilkie?" 

"  Nought,  Master  Humphrey ;  nought 
whatsoiver." 

Unconsciously  the  boy  clenched  his  fists. 
"  I  should  just  advise  you  to  say  something," 
he  exclaimed,  a  sudden  huskiness  com  ing  into 
his  voice. 

Grim  amusement  was  visible  on  the  old 
poacher's  brown,  leathery,  deeply-wrinkled 
face  as  he  slowly  looked  the  boy  all  over. 
"Ay,"  he  answered,  "but  women,  childer, 
an'  vools  ba  maist  wan." 

"  I  think  we  had  better  part,  Wilkie,  be 
fore  I  am  tempted  to  do  you  an  injury," 
said  the  boy,  trembling  with  rage. 

"  Wull,"  exclaimed  the  old  poacher,  rising 
and  stretching  himself,  "  I  reckon  I  shud  ba 
getting  along ;  Farmer  Rod,  over  to  Chope, 
axed  me  to  be  down  wi'  tha  tamers  a  matter 
avor  dree  :  tha  ba  gwaying  to  drash  them 
corn-ricks :  ther  'ull  ba  a  sight  o'  rats,  I 
reckon — a  sight  o'  rats." 

Humphrey,  who  had  moved  away,  slack 
ened  pace :  the  old  poacher  glanced  at  him 
out  of  the  tail  of  one  eye. 


20  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  Us  killed  'ern.  by  the  score  last  year,"  he 
said  ;  "  vleas  cudn't  wull  'ave  been  thicker." 

Humphrey  pulled  up  dead  short;  back, 
however,  still  turned  in  Wilkie's  direction. 

"  Ay,"  remarked  the  latter,  "  'twor  purty 
sport :  a  man  had  to  keep  his  eyes  unbut 
toned  an'  lay  about  him  mortal  smart  or  wan 
o'  they  rats  wild  ba  up  tha  leg  o'  his  trous 
ers  in  less  time  than  Varmer  Rod's  old  white 
drake  takes  to  shake  his  tail." 

Humphrey  wheeled  straight  round.  "  I 
was  thinking,"  he  said,  "  of  going  to  Chope 
myself." 

"  Then  us  had  better  ba  gittin'  along,  yer 
honour." 

As  they  moved  away  the  boy's  thoughts 
still  jingled  with  Dick  Atter's  story. 

"  Wilkie,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  think 
my  mother  was  like  ? " 

"  I  niver  zeed  hur  mysulf ,  Master  Hum 
phrey,  an'  niver  drapped  across  no  pusson 
that  had,  for  the  matter  o'  that,"  the  old 
poacher  answered.  "  Happen  hur  wor  pow 
erful  white  about  the  vace  an'  hands ;  least 
ways  that  ba  how  I've  alles  reckoned  hur, — 
ginelfolks  baing  sich." 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  21 

"  Who  told  you  that  my  mother  was 
dead  ?  "  demanded  the  boy. 

"  No  wan  whatsoiver,  Master  Humphrey." 

"Then " 

The  old  poacher  glanced  at  him  with  a 
good  deal  of  kindly  pity. 

"  I  reckon  hur's  dead,  pore  soul,"  he  said  at 
last.  "  I  wudn't  ba  arter  worrying  hur  if  I 
wor  'ee,  Master  Humphrey ;  happen  her  wud 
liefer  bide  quiet." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  when  the  boy 
spoke  again  his  voice  had  a  certain  huski- 
ness. 

"I  think,  Wilkie,"  he  said,  "that  ratting, 
after  all,  is  tame  sport.  I'll  go  back  to  the 
house  and  splice  my  rod."  He  turned  away, 
suddenly  to  wheel  round  towards  the  poacher, 
his  face  flushing. 

"  I  was  rather  angry  just  now,  wasn't  I, 
Wilkie  ? "  he  asked,  giving  a  fierce  twiddle 
to  one  of  his  jacket-buttons. 

"  Nought  worth  mentioning,  yer  honour." 

Humphrey  gave  a  gulp.  "  Well,  I  regret 
it,"  he  said  ;  "  but,"  brightening,  "  you  can't 
box,  can  you,  Wilkie  ?  " 

"  No,  yer  honour." 


22  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  Well,  I  expect  I  should  have  made  things 
unpleasant  for  you." 

"May  be,  yer  honour,  may  be,"  the  old 
poacher  answered ;  "  and  as  for  Dick  Atter," 
he  continued,  "  ha  ba  a  rapscallions  lump  for 
sure  " — Humphrey  winced, — "  but  happen  ha 
acted  fair  by  yer  honour,  an'  us  'ull  let  the 
rapscalliousness  bide  over  accordin'." 

The  tears  shot  into  the  boy's  eyes.  He 
held  out  his  hand ;  what  he  said,  however, 
might  to  an  ordinary  mortal  have  sounded 
somewhat  inconsequent. 

"  1  am  coming  on  Sunday,"  he  remarked  in 
a  casual  tone,  "  to  look  at  the  ferrets ;  after 
noon  church  time.  Don't  forget,  Wilkie." 

"Right  yer  are,  Master  Humphrey,"  the 
poacher  answered  ;  "  an'  ther's  a  bit  of  fair- 
in',  my  old  dummon  bought  inter  Moulton, 
awaitin'  for  'ee  a-tap  the  dresser." 

The  two  separated,  and  Wilkie,  turning 
back,  glanced  for  a  moment  at  the  boy's  re 
treating  figure.  "Ay,  but  Dick  Atter,"  he 
muttered.  "  Wull,  wull,  he  had  his  good 
points  the  same  as  the  rest ;  when  it  coorned 
to  paying  the  score,  your  glass  was  as  good 
as  his  own." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE 


CHAPTER    II 

It  was  a  mild  spring  evening  some  four 
years  later.  The  park  and  lawns,  dew-thick 
in  moonlight,  lay  glistening  like  the  blade 
of  a  fresh-sharpened  scythe,  and  upon  them 
gigantic  shadows  spread  out  long  arms.  A 
faint  scent  of  the  night  primrose  drifted 
against  the  Chase  windows ;  but  the  shutters 
were  closed,  and  the  scent  could  not  enter. 
Humphrey  was  seated  opposite  the  Squire, 
over  his  wine  ;  the  further  end  of  the  great 
dining-hall  was  lost  in  shadow,  against  which 
the  lights  from  the  candelabra  beat  vainly. 
High  up  over  his  head  the  carved  ceiling 
looked  as  grim  and  as  far  away  as  the  age 
in  which  it  had  been  designed.  On  the 
walls  hung  the  portraits  of  Thursbys,  dead, 
— all  but  the  eyes,  which,  ever  alert,  peered 
down  upon  the  boy.  Humphrey  glanced  at 
the  Squire  sipping  his  wine,  and  wondered 
what  were  his  thoughts :  was  he,  too,  haunted 
by  those  ever-vigilant  eyes,  or  had  he  grown 
indifferent  with  years  ? 


24  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

After  a  wHle  the  Squire  pushed  back  his 
chair.  "  Well,"  he  exclaimed,  rising  from 
the  table,  "  it  will  be  some  time  before  we 
dine  again  together,  I  suppose.  I'm  sorry; 
but  if  you  will  colonise — you  will." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you  too,  sir,"  Hum 
phrey  answered,  following  his  grandfather 
into  the  smoking-room;  "but  I  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  find  that  fellow  Atter  and 
sift  his  story  to  the  bottom." 

"  You  are  not  likely  to  succeed  where  the 
detectives  failed,"  replied  the  Squire.  Light 
ing  a  cigar,  he  puffed  at  it  a  few  moments 
in  silence.  "  Best  leave  the  past  alone,  my 
lad,"  he  added. 

Humphrey  turned  on  him  with  quickened 
pulses.  "  I  know  very  little  of  that  past, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"  You  share  in  the  general  ignorance." 

o  o 

"  But  I  know  nothing" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  "  And  I 
also,"  said  the  Squire. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Humphrey,  startled  out 
of  himself,  "  you  know  absolutely  nothing  ?  " 

The  Squire  turned  away.  "  Isn't  it  rather 
late  to  discuss  such  a  subject? "  he  said. 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  25 

"  The  truth  means  a  great  deal  to  me,  sir," 
Humphrey  answered. 

"  Ah— the  truth  !  " 

"  Yes." 

The  Squire  laid  a  hand  on  Humphrey's 
shoulder.  "  My  lad,"  he  said,  "Atter's  story 
was  as  impossible  to  prove  as  disprove." 

Humphrey's  face  went  chalk-white.  "  But, 
but,  but,"  he  stuttered  and  stopped  short, — 
the  words  stuck  in  his  throat ;  pride  prevented 
him  asking  if  the  Squire  believed  him  his 
grandson.  Standing  there,  however,  the 
question  ran  like  a  red-hot  wire  through  his 
brain. 

"  You  acknowledged  me  on  slender  evi 
dence,"  he  said  at  last. 

"And  have  not  regretted  it  so  far,"  the 
Squire  answered.  "  I  admit,"  he  continued 
after  a  pause,  "  that  I  might  have  done  other 
wise,  had  I  known  from  the  first  how  difficult 
Atter's  story  might  prove  to  authenticate." 

Humphrey  shuddered,  and  hated  himself 
for  shuddering.  "I  feel- a  Thursby,  sir,"  he 
said,  "  every  bit  of  me." 

The  Squire  smiled.  "Yes,  yes,"  he  an 
swered  ;  "  I  think  we  all  know  that." 


2u  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"  You  are  certain  Atter  went  back  to  Aus 
tralia?"  Humphrey  asked,  suddenly. 

"Yes.  We  traced  him  to  New  South 
Wales;  but  there  is  very  little  chance  of  your 
coming  across  him." 

"  I  have  a  premonition  that  I  shall  run  up 
against  him.  You  don't  believe  in  premoni 
tions,  I  expect,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  not  much." 

"  He  was  a  well-built  man,  you  say  ? " 

"  Yes ;  a  great  muscular  fellow,  with  rather 
a  fine  face,  and  had,  I  should  imagine,  a  devil 
ish  temper  of  his  own." 

"  And  as  to  trustworthiness  ?  " 

"  Personally,  I  knew  very  little  of  the 
man ;  but  your  father  thought  well  of 
him." 

"  Did  he  impress  you  that  night  as  a  man 
who  was  speaking  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Squire,  moving  away,  "  he 
told  his  story  in  a  straightforward  manner ; 
but  it  is  possible  that  I  was  not  at  that 
moment  the  best  of  critics." 

The  Squire's  voice  trembled,  and  he  went 
to  the  window  and,  flinging  back  the  shutters, 
stared  across  the  park,  where  the  moonlight 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  27 

slept  and  the  Black  Swan  lake   held  up  a 
shadow-soaked  face  to  the  sky. 

"  It  must  all  come  to  the  hammer,"  he  ex 
claimed  half  aloud. 

Humphrey  caught  the  words.  "  Not  in 
evitably,"  he  answered,  almost  unconscious 
that  he  had  spoken. 

The  Squire  glanced  at  him.  "  It  is  mort 
gaged  up  to  the  hilt,"  he  said.  "At  least, 
most  of  it." 

"  But  I  may  fall  on  my  feet  in  Australia," 
Humphrey  answered,  blushing  boyishly. 

The  Squire  smiled.  "  By  the  way,"  he  said, 
"  I  think  I  told  you  that  I  had  a  very  fair 
offer  for  the  Chope  and  Marston  farms,  \vhich 
I  have  decided  to  close  with.  Well,  I  pro 
pose,  after  the  mortgages  have  been  paid  off, 
placing  the  balance  in  some  sound  invest 
ment  ;  the  whole  sum,  including  interest,  to 
be  paid  over  to  you  when  you  reach  the  age 
of  twenty-five.  It  will  be  no  great  sum- 
some  few  thousands,  probably ;  but  by  that 
time  you  will  have  been  able  to  look  round 
and  have  gained  sufficient  experience  to  make 
the  most  of  it." 

He   was   silent   a   moment.      A   hundred 


28  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

different  ideas  buzzed  off  like  fireworks  in 
the  boy's  brain.  It  seemed  to  Humphrey  as 
if  this  promised  money  was  all  that  was 
needed  to  found  the  fortune  with  which  the 
Chase  was  to  be  saved. 

"There  is  only  one  objection,"  he  said,  in  a 
voice  trembling  with  excitement. 

"And  that  is?" 

"Something  might  turn  up  before  I  was 
twenty-five.  You  see,  sir,"  he  continued  ex- 
citedly,  "the  colonies  are  not  like  England; 
a  man  has  twice  the  chance  there  that  he  has 
here.  I  heard  a  fellow  saying  the  other  day 
that,  with  a  little  money  and  a  decent  head 
piece,  success  was  a  practical  certainty." 

"  H'm,"  said  the  Squire. 

"  You'll  allow  I'm  no  fool,"  said  Humphrey, 
with  the  proud  conviction  that  he  was  a  very 
clever  fellow  indeed. 

"  It  depends  very  much  on  the  kind  of  fool 
you  mean,"  was  the  Squire's  unexpected  reply. 

"  Oh — ah  !  "  exclaimed  Humphrey,  much 
taken  aback ;  "  I  don't  think  fool  is  quite  the 
right  word,  sir.  One  might  put  it  that  I 
have  as  much  brains,  perhaps  more,  than  the 
general  run  of  fellows." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  29 

"  Well,"  replied  the  Squire,  smiling,  "  sup 
pose  we  put  it  that  way ;  what  follows  ?  " 

"Then,"  said  Humphrey,  with  an  uncon 
scious  ring  of  triumph  in  his  voice,  "the 
chances  are  that  I  shall  make  a  big  pile.  If 
only "  he  stopped  short. 

"Well?" 

"  I'm  given  a  free  hand,  sir." 

"What  do  you  understand  by  a  free 
hand?" 

"Do  you  really  intend  the  money  you 
spoke  of  for  me  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  give  it  to  me  outright;  not  when  I 
am  twenty-five,  but  now." 

"  You  would  lose  every  penny  of  it  before 
you  had  been  in  Australia  six  months." 

"  I'm  not  an  absolute  fool,  sir." 

"  My  dear  lad,"  replied  the  Squire,  laugh- 
ing,  "perhaps  if  you  thought  yourself  one, 
there  would  be  more  hope  for  you." 

A  dead  pause.  Humphrey  kicked  the  rug 
with  his  foot. 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  the  Squire  at  last,  "  tell 
me  your  plans." 

Humphrey  brightened,  he  walked  across  to 


30  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

the  window  where  the  Squire  stood.  "  I  talk 
as  if  I  were  awfully  cock-sure  of  myself ;  but 
you  understand,  don't  you  ? "  he  said  apolo 
getically.  Their  eyes  met,  and  the  Squire 
placed  his  arm  in  the  boy's. 

"  Now  tell  me  the  plans,"  he  repeated. 

Humphrey  glowed.  "  Well,  what  I  should 
suggest,"  he  exclaimed,  in  an  important  voice, 
"  is  that  the  money  should  be  placed  at  de 
posit  in  some  good  colonial  bank,  say  the 
Bank  of  Australasia  (they  gave  you  four 
per  cent  some  time  back — they  don't  now, 
though)  ;  and  then,  if  any  really  good  thing 
turned  up,  I  should  be  in  a  position  to  take 
advantage  of  it.  You  see,  sir,  having  the 
money  on  the  spot  might  make  all  the  differ 
ence  between  a  big  or  a  small  success.  I 
heard  that  fellow  I  was  telling  you  about  say 
that  he  had  the  chance  once  of  an  absolutely 
sure  thing,  thousands  in  it,  and  he  kept  tele 
graphing  and  telegraphing  home  to  his  peo 
ple  (he  was  hard  up,  too,  and  had  to  pay  ten 
shillings  a  word)  ;  just  as  he  reached  his  last 
sovereign,  back  came  the  answer,  and,  would 
you  believe  it,  sir,  all  it  said  was — '  Go  to  the 
devil.' " 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  31 

The  Squire  chuckled. 

"  That  is  not  giving  a  fellow  a  chance,  is 
it?" 

"  Not  the  ghost  of  one,"  replied  the  Squire, 
still  chuckling. 

"  I  am  glad  you  see  it  in  the  right  light, 


sir." 


"Yes,"  admitted  the  Squire  humbly,  "I 
think  I  do." 

"  I  can  have  the  money,  then  ? "  very 
eagerly. 

"  Well,  well,"  answered  the  Squire,  "  I  must 
think  about  it :  I  should  be  doing  you  a  very 
bad  turn,  I  am  afraid,  by  consenting." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  "  I  have  never 
told  you,"  said  Humphrey  at  last  with  a  kind 
of  gulp,  "  but,  but  I  think  rather  a  lot  of  the 
Chase  myself ;  and,  and  one  of  the  principal 
reasons  why  I  want  the  money  is,  is — Fin 

rather  a  fool  at  explaining ;  but,  but " 

he  stopped  dead,  his  eyes  swimming. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  Squire  shakily, 
"  I  understand."  His  grasp  on  the  boy's  arm 
tightened,  and  they  both  stood  silent,  looking 
out  over  the  lands  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  each 
of  them.  At  this  moment  the  butler  entered. 


32  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

<£  If  you  please,  sir,"  lie  said,  addressing 
Humphrey,  "  Wilkie  is  here  and  is  anxious 
to  see  you." 

"  Tell  him  to  come  in,  Henchel,"  Humphrey 
answered,  and  after  a  brief  interval  the  old 
poacher  entered. 

He  was  carrying  a  long,  curiously-shaped 
parcel.  "  A  present  to  you  from  the  parish, 
yer  honour,"  he  said,  placing  the  parcel  on  the 
ground,  where  it  stood  up  stiff  and  straight. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  asked  Humphrey  with 
some  curiosity. 

"  No  hurry,  yer  honour,  no  hurry ;  I  ain't 
unpacked  'em  yet,"  replied  the  poacher,  un 
winding  the  paper  covering. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  ejaculated  the  Squire, 
"  a  pair  of  trousers.  What  are  they  made  of  ? 
Why,  they  stand  upright  of  themselves !  " 

"The  best  leather  in  the  parish,  yer 
honour,"  answered  Wilkie,  whisking  away 
the  last  bit  of  paper  from  one  of  the  legs. 
"  The  village  thought  they  would  be  mortal 
handy  over  to  f  urren  parts,  where  sich  things 
be  scarce,  so  to  speak.  There's  a  deal  o'  wear 
in  'em,"  he  continued,  turning  the  trousers 
round,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur ;  "  the 


LIFE  IS  LIFE  33 

Jidgement  Day  'ull  find  'em  much  the  same 
as  they  be  now." 

The  Squire  chuckled.  "So  I  should  be 
inclined  to  think,"  he  said. 

"  Ay,  ay,  yer  honour,  there  ain't  been  the 
like  o'  sich  a  pair  o'  trousers  in  the  parish 
afore,"  the  poacher  continued,  glowing  with 
a  showman's  justifiable  pride;  "but  the  vil 
lage  is  more  eddycated  than  it  wor  since  they 
penny  readings  and  village  councils  coomed  in. 
Five  years  agoneThursby  wudn't  have  knowed 
that  Australie  wor  such  a  terrible  place  for 
thorns.  At  least  so  folks  wor  saying  down 
at  the  Thursby  Arms.  Parson  Jack's  man 
stid  the  trousers  up  on  the  counter,  and  the 
whole  parish  coomed  in  jest  to  look  at  'em." 

"  It  is  awfully  good  of  you  all,"  said  Hum 
phrey,  with  a  suppressed  groan.  "Do  you 
think  you  could  carry  them  up-stairs  for  me, 
out — ah — out  of  this  ?  " 

u  Law  bless  yer  honour,"  Wilkie  an 
swered,  "that  tiddlewinkie  spit  o'  doo  that 
be  coming  droo  the  winder  won't  wark  'em 
no  harm." 

Again  the  Squire  chuckled  audibly. 

"  No,  no,"  Humphrey  answered,  reddening, 
3 


34  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"but  they  will  have  to  be  packed.  Wait  in 
my  room  till  I  come  up,"  he  added,  dropping 
a  sovereign  into  the  old  poacher's  hand. 

Wilkie  pulled  his  forelock.  "  I  wud  have 
taken  good  care  o'  em  wi'out  that,"  he  an 
swered  ;  u  but  there,"  he  continued,  looking 
down  on  the  gold  piece,  "  health  is  better 
than  wealth,  and  a  sovrun's  a  sovrun ;  I 
humbly  hopes  I  sees  you  hearty,  yer  honour," 
so  saying  he  raised  the  leather  trousers  once 
more  to  his  shoulder  and  left  the  room. 

The  Squire  watched  him,  smiling.  "So  I 
am  to  send  all  letters  care  of  the  bank 
at  Sydney?"  he  asked,  changing  the  sub 
ject. 

"  Yes ;  that  would  be  the  safest.  You  see  it 
will  be  close  on  shearing-time  when  I  reach 
the  colonies,  and  I  thought  of  trying  to  get 
work  on  some  of  the  New  South  Wales  sheep- 
stations  ;  going  from  shed  to  shed  as  a  rouse- 
about1  would  give  me  my  best  chance  of 
coming  across  Atter." 

o 

"  Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  Squire,  flicking 
the  ash  off  his  cigar,  "  I  can't  help  thinking 

1  Unskilled  labourer  ;  used  sometimes  as  a  term  of  con 
tempt. 


LIFE   IS    LIFE  35 

you  would  be  wiser  to  let  the  affair  drop 
altogether." 

"  I  can't,  sir — I  would  if  it  weren't  for  my 
mother;  but,  but — you  see  she  might  be — 
alive."  The  boy's  eyes  filled  with  quick  tears, 
and  he  turned  away  to  hide  his  emotion. 

"  As  you  will,"  said  the  Squire  hurriedly — 
u  as  you  will." 

"  I  must,  sir." 

"  Well,  that  settles  it." 

The  following  day  Humphrey  left  England 
for  Australia. 


PART  II 

THE  MAN  ATTER 

CHAPTER    I 

IT  was  summer  on  one  of  the  New  South 
Wales  border  stations.  The  roof  of  the  big 
corrugated  iron  wool-shed  lay  like  molten 
lead  beneath  the  sun,  and  the  heat  reeled  off 
it  and  fought  the  ammonia  stench  and  red 
dust-clouds  rising  from  the  sheep-yards. 
Inside  the  thermometer  fizzled  at  a  few  de 
grees  lower;  there  was  no  dust;  the  floor, 
white  and  polished  as  a  bread  platter,  was 
littered  with  soft  yolky  fleeces.  To  all  appear- 
ance  the  shed  was  empty :  shearer  and  rouse- 
abouts,  having  struck  work  and  declared  for 
the  Union,  were  filing,  swag  on  shoulder, 
quart-pot  and  water-bag  in  hand,  across  the 
plain  towards  their  new  camping-ground  some 
distance  down  the  creek.  Moving  by,  the 

36 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  37 

sound  of  their  voices  clattered  against  the 
shed  walls;  and  a  boy,  who  lay  concealed  be 
hind  a  heap  of  fleeces,  raised  himself  cautious 
ly  and  glanced  out  at  them.  He  was  a  straight- 
limbed  young  fellow  verging  on  manhood,  and 
looked,  in  spite  of  his  ragged  jumper  and 
tarred  moleskins,  a  gentleman.  As  Hum 
phrey,  for  it  was  he,  stood  watching,  four 
men  broke  ofE  from  the  rest,  and,  after  a  short 
consultation,  came  towards  the  wool-shed. 
The  boy's  heart  thumped  against  his  ribs,  but 
he  made  no  further  attempt  at  concealment ; — 
the  strikers  walked  up  the  gangway,  pushed 
back  the  door  and  entered.  They  were  strong- 
built  men,  lean,  wiry,  well-seasoned  —  each 
more  than  a  match  for  the  boy ;  they  knew 
their  superiority  and  made  him  feel  it,  as  they 
bound  his  hands  and  sent  him  out  of  the  shed 
with  a  rousing  kick.  He  glanced  across  the 
great  red  dusty  plain  with  its  trail  of  red- 
eyed  dusty  shearers ;  there  was  no  living  soul 
among  them  who  would  stand  his  friend ;  he 
straightened  his  shoulders  and  determined  to 
stand  by  himself.  Leaving  the  main  track 
the  men  forced  him  to  enter  the  scrub,  where 
the  tall,  rank  crab-grass  marked  the  course  of 


38  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

the  last  flood  and  hid  the  cracks  and  holes  in 
the  ground.  The  boy  stumbled  awkwardly, 
and  the  men  laughed  and  kicked  him  so  that 
he  stumbled  again ;  then  he  set  his  teeth  and 
planted  his  feet  with  care,  for  too  much  kick 
ing  is  bad  for  the  blood.  Reaching  the  camp, 
his  appearance  was  greeted  with  jeers  of 
derision.  : .  - 

"  Here's  your  ha'porth  of  milk,  Bullocky," 
cried  one  of  the  men.  The  strike  leader  paid 
no  attention  to  the  remark,  but,  striding  up 
to  Humphrey,  gripped  his  shoulder  with  the 
force  of  a  steel  vice.  Standing  facing  each 
other,  it  was  apparent  that  they  were  both 
something  of  the  same  build ;  but  the  man's 
figure  was  the  finer,  the  firmer  set,  his  chest 
deeper  and  of  greater  girth,  and  he  carried 
his  immense  height  with  ease.  The  head, 
well  poised  and  finely  moulded,  was  covered 
with  a  thick  crop  of  white  hair ;  one  deep 
wrinkle  cleft  the  forehead  between  the  eyes; 
the  chin  in  its  obstinate  strength  might  have 
been  some  devil's  chin,  but  the  mouth  be 
trayed  the  weakness  of  a  man  rocked  by 
passions.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke,  the 
gaze  of  their  grey  eyes  tense  as  a  tightly 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  39 

strung  steel  wire.  Then  Bullocky  relaxed 
his  grip.  "  Wot  do  yer  mean  by  skulking, 
yer  blanked  blackleg  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

Again  there  was  a  silence ;  and  the  boy 
picked  mechanically  at  a  piece  of  wool  on  his 
blue  jumper.  He  did  not  look  a  heroic  figure 
standing  there  with  the  mark  of  a  recent  kick 
on  the  back  of  his  moleskins,  neither  did  he 
feel  heroic, — he  felt  something  much  nearer 
akin  to  fear;  but  his  quiet  bearing  distin 
guished  him  as  belonging  to  a  different  class 
from  his  tormentors. 

"  I  do  not  believe  in  strikes,"  he  answered 
deliberately. 

A  ripple  of  surprise  passed  through  the 
men;  they  turned  by  instinct  and  glanced  at 
their  leader's  face — at  his  great  jaw  and 
square-cut  chin  where  the  passion  was  frozen 
solid,  at  the  twitching  mouth,  at  the  over 
bearing,  passion-ripped  brow. 

"  Inter  the  creek  with  him,  Bullocky ;  set 
his  blamed  gullet  a- wash,"  cried  one  of  the 
strikers. 

Involuntarily  the  boy's  glance  strayed  to 
the  creek.  It  lay  some  ten  feet  below  the 
bank, — a  pleasant  place  enough  to  camp  by 


40  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

at  noon  or  sundown,  with  the  bell  of  your 
hobbled  horse  clinking  in  your  ear,  and  the 
red -back  shuffling  lazily  from  under  the  lig 
num  on  to  the  black-faced  water  ;  pleasant  to 
lie  and  watch  the  ibis  fishing  solemnly,  lift 
ing  one  lean-shanked  leg  from  the  centre  of 
a  round-rimmed  ripple,  to  place  it  bang  in 
the  centre  of  another ;  while  far  out  on  the 
mirage-hunted  plain  the  native  companions 
dance  fantastic  dances,  the  great  bush-bustard 
sails  on  awkward,  rustling  wings,  and  the  emu 
trots  his  wide-paced  slinging  trot  with  bob 
bing  rump ; — pleasant  enough,  but  somehow 
it  did  not  look  so  to  Humphrey  as  he  scanned 
its  black,  snag-broken  surface. 

Bullocky,  seeing  the  direction  of  the  glance, 
laughed,  and  the  men  surged  in  closer.  One 
of  them  tied  a  rope  round  the  boy's  waist, 
not  to  prevent  drowning,  but  to  prevent  es 
cape  ;  a  hundred  hands  tore  at  him,  buffeted, 
raised,  shot  him  up  and  forth  on  what  seemed 
an  everlasting  journey  through  space ;  then 
the  angle  of  his  flight  changed,  and  he  began 
to  fall  downwards ;  again  he  seemed  to  feel 
the  hands,  tearing  at  his  vitals  this  time,  till 
with  a  crash  he  struck  the  water,  which 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  41 

closed  over,  crushing  him  in  a  heavy  em 
brace.  He  was  hauled  ashore  and  lay  with 
the  wind  knocked  out  of  him,  af raid,  sicken- 
ingly  afraid,  not  of  the  men,  but  of  that 
long,  long  flight  through  the  air,  and  those 
terrible,  invisible  hands  that  tore  at  his  vitals 
as  he  fell  down  towards  the  sharp-edged 
water. 

Bullocky  came  forward  and  stooped  down, 
till  the  boy  felt  the  man's  hot,  fetid  breath 
upon  his  face. 

"  Well,  you  long-tongued,  corn -stalking  son 
of  a  kangaroo,"  he  said,  "have  you  had  enough 
of  preaching,  or  do  yer  want  another  dose  of 
the  creek  ? " 

Tearing  and  plunging  in  Humphrey's  chest 
a  great  sob  rose,  he  fighting  it  back  to  silence, 
as  he  would  have  fought  a  devil ;  for  Bullocky 
was  watching,  tracking  the  sob  with  trium 
phant  scorn,  and,  when  it  broke  bonds,  stutter 
ing  out,  kicked  him  very,  very  softly,  in  the 
way  he  would,  when  not  drunk,  have  toed  out 
his  contempt  on  a  woman. 

The  boy  staggered  to  his  feet.  "  You 
cowardly  cur,"  he  cried,  "  I  will  never  give  in 
to  you." 


42  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

A  moment  later  and  a  blow,  planted  above 
the  heart,  sent  him  reeling  into  the  creek; 
a  snag  struck  his  eyes,  tearing  away  the  sight. 
Two  men  went  down  the  bank  and  brought 
him  ashore,  and  he  lay  limp  as  a  corpse  before 
it  is  death-stiffened. 

"  He  looks  sorter  dead,"  exclaimed  one  of 
them,  drawing  back.  "  You  hit  him  over  the 
heart,  Bullocky." 

The  strike  leader  turned  his  fear-sodden 
face  on  the  speaker.  "  Git  out  o'  this,"  he 
cried,  "  or,  by  the  living  God,  I'll  lay  yer  out 
the  same ! " — and  the  man  slunk  away  through 
the  trees.  The  blood  began  to  ooze  from 
under  the  boy's  closed  eyelids,  and  one  of 
the  strikers  brought  some  water  in  his  hat, 
and  stood  looking  at  Bullocky,  the  water 
dribbling  from  the  hat  on  to  the  boy's  blue 
jumper.  Bullocky  Dick  knelt  down,  opened 
the  jumper  and  placed  his  great,  coarse,  trem 
bling  hand  over  his  victim's  heart.  After  a 
while  he  beckoned  to  the  man. 

"  See  if  he's  pegged  out ;  my  hand's  kind 
o'  shaky,"  he  said :  his  voice  had  a  stiff  sound 
as  if  it  worked  on  unoiled  hinges. 

The  man  ripped  the  juniper  and  shirt  wider 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  43 

back,  and  laid  Lis  ear  down  against  the  lad's 
heart ;  shearers  and  rouse-abouts  came  a  step 
forward,  gripping  at  their  breath ;  Bullocky 
stared  across  the  creek  at  the  lignum  scrub. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  the  man 
turned  a  twitching  face  to  the  strikers. 

"  The  blood  in  my  head  is  so  blanked  noisy, 
I  can't  tull,"  he  said. 

Another  man  came  forward,  knelt  down, 
raised  the  boy's  eyelids,  dropped  them,  and 
exclaimed,  "  Not  dead ; — blinded  !  " 

A  ripple  of  relief  ran  through  the  strikers; 
then  they  glanced  at  the  bleeding  eyes,  shud 
dered,  slunk  back,  humped  swags,  and  moved 
off  through  the  trees,  leaving  their  leader  and 
his  victim  alone.  Bullocky  Dick  stood,  his 
face  swept  clean  of  passion  ;  turning,  he  saw 
his  late  followers  in  full  retreat,  and  burst 
into  a  laugh  that  sent  the  men,  shuddering, 
faster  on  their  way.  His  horse  was  hitched 
by  the  bridle  to  a  tree  close  by ;  mounting, 
he  rode  off  in  the  direction  of  the  nearest 
Bush  public. 

The  moon  was  up  when  he  returned ;  the 
dry  sapless  grass  lay  white  beneath  it,  and 
the  ring-barked  gums,  lining  the  creek's  edge, 


44  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

stood  whiter.  The  boy  had  regained  con 
sciousness,  and  half  rolled,  half  slipped  down 
the  bank,  knelt  bathing  his  eyes. 

Silently  Bullocky  watched  him  try  to  climb 
up  the  bank,  miss  his  way  among  the  roots, 
and  slide  back  once  more  towards  the  creek. 
Dismounting,  Bullocky  carried  his  victim  to 
the  foot  of  a  great  half-dead  gum-tree,  and 
propped  him  with  his  swag  against  the  trunk. 

The  boy  murmured  thanks.  "  Who  are 
you  ? "  he  asked,  turning  his  sightless,  blood 
stained  face  towards  the  strike  leader.  There 
was  a  long  silence ;  a  brown  wood -duck  shot 
down  upon  the  creek,  and,  skating  forward 
on  her  breast,  threw  up  a  great  triangular 
ripple  behind  on  the  level  black  water. 

"  In  the  old  country  they  called  me  Dick 
Atter,"  said  Bullocky  at  last. 

A  spasm  of  pleasure  crossed  the  boy's  face ; 
he  raised  himself. 

"  A  man  called  Dick  Atter  once  did  me  a 
great  service,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly.  "  I've 
always  wanted  to  meet  and  thank  him.  I 
suppose  you  can't  be  he?  My  name  is 
Thursby,  one  of  the  Thursbys  of  Thursby, 
Devonshire.  Do  you  know  the  name  ?  " 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  45 

"  Yes,"  replied  Atter,  "  I  know  the  name." 

"  Well,  1'in  Humphrey  Thursby,  Captain 
Thursby's  son.  'Twas  you  who  brought  me 
home  from  Australia.  I  must  have  been  a 
fine  nuisance ;  but  it's  pleasant  meeting  you 
at  last." 

Atter  made  no  reply.  Sitting  there,  he 
seemed  to  age  between  one  splash  of  moon 
light  and  the  next ;  in  twenty  seconds  he 
grew  older  by  as  many  years  ;  his  lips  formed 
words,  muttering,  muttering,  but  no  sound 
broke  the  silence. 

"Those  brutes  have  knocked  me  about 
rather  badly,"  the  boy  continued ;  "  I  must 
get  down  to  Bourke, — the  doctor  will  soon 
patch  me  up  ;  I'nAlind  now,  but  it  can't  be 
permanent.  A  fellow's  career  isn't  destroyed 
quite  so  easily — eh,  Atter  ? " 

Still  no  reply.  Humphrey  dragged  himself 
forward  and  laid  his  hands  on  Atterrs  knees. 
"  You  are  the  man  I  mean  ?  "  he  asked.  "  You 
served  under  my  father  in  the  4th,  eh  ? " 

No  answer. 

"  You  don't  seem  quite  to  understand ; 
I'm " 

Atter  burst   into   a  loud,  terrible  laugh. 


46  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"  Yer  ain't  no  bloody  Thursby,"  he  exclaimed  ; 
"  you're  my  son,  and  I've  blinded  yer." 

"  You  lie  in  your  throat  !  "  cried  Hum 
phrey,  and  fainted,  his  head  striking  Atter 
across  the  chest  as  he  fell  forward. 

The  moon  rose  higher  and  the  earth  grew 
whiter  in  her  embrace.  A  flock  of  gulars, 
startled  by  Atter's  laugh,  had  flown  chatter 
ing  out  from  a  ring-barked  gum,  and  chat 
tering  back,  they  stuttered  a  moment,  and 
then  fell  to  silence  and  to  sleep,  leaving  the 
dying  tree  to  stare  down  its  dishevelled  sides 
at  the  bark-littered  ground.  Atter  pushed 
the  boy  from  him  and  searched  the  roll  of 
swag  till  his  trembling  hand  found,  and  drew 
forth,  a  bottle  of  spirits — Bush  whisky.  He 
drank  and  drank,  but  did  not  become  drunk ; 
he  became  vividly,  keenly,  awfully  awake : 
but  Humphrey  lay  unconscious,  unheeding, 
and  around  him  the  Bush,  with  its  sapless 
grass  and  shadeless  trees,  trembled  in  the 
cooler  air  of  dawn. 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  47 


CHAPTER   II 

It  was  noon  two  days  later ;  some  hundred 
strikers  were  collected  near  an  entrance-gate 
of  the  station :  stretching  out,  a  long  line  in 
front  of  them,  the  main  track  between  Bourke 
and  Brewarrina  wound  now  across  a  hard  red 
plain,  now  sunk  in  mealy  soil,  grey-brown  and 
studded  with  holes  like  a  pepper-pot  lid. 
There  was  no  wind,  the  narrow  leaves  of  the 
mulga  hung  down  stiff  and  awkward ;  across 
the  plain,  under  mounted  police  convoy,  three 
coaches  rolled  steadily  forward ;  on  top  of 
them  and  inside,  thick  as  flies,  swarmed  the 
"  free  labourers."  The  coaches  drew  nearer, 
and  a  hail  of  sticks  (the  plain  did  not  boast  of 
stones)  fell  on  them ;  the  police  drew  their 
revolvers,  they  had  orders  not  to  fire,  and  the 
coaches  continued  to  advance.  Towards  them 
rode  Atter,  behind  him  heaved  the  strikers, 
cursing  as  only  an  Australian  can  curse,  till 
the  air  seemed  rank  beneath  its  load  of  im 
pious  filth.  Whirling  a  great  stock-whip 
round  his  head,  Atter  struck  a  trooper's  mare 


48  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

across  the  eyes :  the  maddened  animal  dashed 
into  a  wire  fence,  tore  free,  flinging  her  rider. 
Cut  to  the  bone,  and  with  half  a  yard  of 
wire  banging  at  her  legs,  the  mare  went 

O        o  O    / 

careering  towards  the  creek, — a  moment  later 
she  had  jumped  the  bank,  a  submerged  snag 
caught  the  bridle,  dragging  her  down ;  for  a 
while  the  poor  brute  spun  round,  then  sank 
screaming  beneath  the  water.  Meanwhile  the 
strikers  had  rushed  the  coaches, — seething  up 
over  the  sides,  a  kicking,  biting,  limb-tearing 
swarm, — till  the  great  coaches  rocked,  and 
every  man  upon  them  had  become  a  solid 
Unionist  before  the  drowning  mare  had  ceased 
to  scream.  Then  the  strikers  and  their  new 
allies  went  amicably  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  nearest  Bush  public,  there  to  drink  to 
gether  to  the  general  and  particular  discom 
fiture  of  the  "  blanky  squatter."  The  police 
trooper  who  had  been  thrown  from  his  horse 
struggled  to  his  feet ;  he  had  been  knocked  a 
bit  silly,  and  began  laughing  in  a  mad,  aim 
less  fashion,  going  up  and  down  like  a  bell- 
rope.  Atter  watched  the  man  a  moment,  then 
sent  a  piece  of  mulga  whizzing  towards  him ; 
it  struck  the  side  of  his  head,  and  he  fell  with 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  49 

the  laugh  choked  out  of  him.  The  strikers 
grinned  appreciation,  but  Bullocky,  with  his 
face  set  like  a  stone,  left  his  companions  and 
rode  away  in  the  direction  of  his  own  camp. 
Outside  the  tent,  his  head  supported  on  his 
arm,  Humphrey  lay  asleep :  the  flies  swarmed 
across  and  around  his  bandaged  face.  Atter 
looked  at  him  awhile,  sat  down,  filled  his  pipe, 
and  began  smoking.  The  flies  buzzed ;  Hum 
phrey  rolled  to  one  side,  sighing  heavily. 
Atter  glanced  at  him  again :  the  boy,  with  his 
mouth  relaxed  by  sleep,  looked  very  boyish, 
and  the  man's  hard  brutal  face  became  less 
hard,  less  brutal.  He  picked  up  a  bunch  of 
twigs,  switched  the  flies  away ;  they  swarmed 
back,  and  he  sat  smoking  and  switching,  and 
the  boy  fell  into  a  sounder  sleep.  At  last 
Humphrey  awoke.  Putting  up  his  hand  in 
stinctively  to  his  eyes,  he  tried  to  rearrange 
the  bandage ;  Atter  leaned  over  to  where  his 
roll  of  swag  lay,  untied  the  bundle,  fished 
out  a  clean  shirt,  and  tearing  off  a  strip  from 
the  tail,  flung  the  piece  of  linen  towards  the 
boy. 

"There,"  he  said,  "  tie  'em  up  wi'  that." 
He  watched  the  boy's  vain,  awkward  efforts 
4 


50  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

to  find  the  linen;  then,  leaning  forward, 
folded  and  tied  the  fresh  bandage  for  him,  his 
great  coarse  fingers  shaking  rather  oddly. 

"  Blank  me,"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  half 
laugh,  "  tarring  stud  ewes 1  after  shearing  is 
nothing  to  yer." 

Humphrey  turned  his  bandaged  face  tow 
ards  the  sun. 

"  I  must  get  down  to  Bourke,"  he  said 
wistfully. 

"  To  the  hospital  ?  " 

"  Yes.17 

"  Ah — well,"  exclaimed  Atter,  "  I  reckon 
that  this  bally  place  will  soon  be  a  blanked 
sight  too  hot  to  hold  me." 

Humphrey  had  an  intense  longing  to  escape 
from  the  man, — to  get  away  somewhere  and 
think. 

"  I  could  coach  down,"  he  said,  "  if  you 
would  see  me  as  far  as  Ryan's," — Ryan's  was 
the  name  of  the  nearest  Bush  public. 

The  strike  leader  picked  up  a  stick  and 
sent  it  after  a  great  pink  and  grey  iguana  that 
was  scuttling  up  a  gum-tree. 

1  Tarring  stud  ewes,  &c.  The  wounds  of  a  sheep  caused 
by  the  slipping  of  the  shears  are  always  tarred. 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  51 

"  No,"  he  answered,  after  a  pause,  "  I 
reckon  I'll  run  yer  straight  into  the  yards 
myself." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Humphrey  shifted 
his  weight  from  one  elbow  to  the  other. 

"  Atter,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "  you  owe 
me  an  explanation." 

"Then  yer  blanked  well  won't  git  it." 

"Yes,"  cried  the  boy  fiercely,  throwing 
himself  upon  the  man,  "  by  God,  you  shall 


answer  me." 


Atter  shook  him  off  as  he  would  a  fly. 
"  None  o'  that,"  he  answered.  Then,  after  a 
pause,  "  Wot  do  yer  want  to  know  ?  " 

"The  truth  at  last — whether  I  am  a 
Thursby  or " 

"  Go  an'  be  a  blanked  Thursby  if  yer  like ; 
I'll  never  blab  on  yer :  her  reckoned  'ee  one, 
any  way." 

"  Who  do  you  mean  by  '  her '  ?  "  asked 
Humphrey,  his  voice  trembling. 

"Ther  wuman." 

"What  woman?" 

Atter  cursed.  "  Your  mother,"  he  an 
swered  sullenly. 

Humphrey's   head   sank   down   upon    his 


52  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

hands  ;  he  remembered  over  again  how  often 
he  had  drawn  mental  visions  of  his  mother, 
from  whom  he  had  so  long  been  parted,  and 
now  he  lay  beside  the  black-faced  creek  and 
wondered,  trembling. 

"  Atter,"  he  said  at  last,  lifting  up  his  face, 
"  I  came  to  Australia  to  find  her — to  claim 
her." 

"She's  dead." 

"Dead?" 

"Yes." 

The  boy  gave  a  short  cry.  "Where? 
How  did  she  die  ? " 

"Died  mad." 

"  Mad ! " 

"Yes." 

"  My  God  !  Atter,  tell  me  the  truth  ;  you 
owe  it  to  me." 

Bullocky  was  silent ;  the  wrinkle  that 
clove  his  brow  sank  deeper,  and  on  his  hard 
brutal  face  mental  suffering  scrawled  deep 
lines. 

"  Gawd  help  me  !  I  can't  tell  yer,"  he  ex 
claimed  at  last. 

The  boy  sank  his  head  down  once  more 
upon  his  hands,  and  there  was  silence.  Sud- 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  53 

denly  Atter  began  to  speak  in  a  thick,  stut 
tering  voice — not  to  the  boy,  but  as  if  to 
some  invisible  auditor. 

"Wot's  a  wuman?"  he  said.  "  Wot's  a 
blank  wuman  ?  Wot's  one  wuman  more  than 
another  ? " 

He  stopped  short,  and  sat  staring  straight 
in  front  of  him;  a  pair  of  bronze-winged 
pigeons  fluttered  down,  pecking  at  the  dried 
grass-roots  near  the  camp. 

"  Hur  wos  poor,"  he  began  again,  "  poor  as 
any  cockatoo's  wife, — an7  wot's  a  blanked 
wuman  when  hur's  poor  ?  " 

Again  he  fell  silent;  the  bronze •  winged 
pigeons  flew  away. 

"  If  her  ain't  a  bad  un,  her  should  be,"  he 
exclaimed  bitterly ;  "  if  her  ain't  a  bad  un, 
her  should  be.  'Tis  her  own  fault  if  her 
ain't;  her  wudn't  sufEer  then.  Wot's  a 
wuman,  any  way  ? 

"  'Twas  on  board  ship  I  saw  her  first,  on 
the  voyage  out.  Her  was  a  second-classer, 
same  as  myself.  I  was  servant  to  Cap'en 
Thursby  in  they  days.  Her  wasn't  nort 
speshil  about  the  face, — I've  seen  scores  o' 
women  as  'ad  beat  her  for  looks ;  but  her  wos 


54  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

sorter  different  from  other  women,  sorter  dif 
ferent,  sorter  different,"  he  repeated  to  him 
self,  "  sorter  different.  I  took  to  watching  her 
kind  o'  casual.  I  got  a  feeling  somehow  as  if 
her  shouldn't  have  bin  there — as  if  her  shud 
o'  bin  on  the  main  deck  olong  o'  the  leddies. 
Then  I  wud  look  at  her  dress — 'twas  a  pore, 
thready,  rain- crinkled  affair — and  say  to  my 
self,  i  Can't  be  ' ;  an'  the  next  minet,  maybe, 
her  wud  git  up  an'  walk  across  the  ship,  an' 
I'd  know  by  the  way  of  her  moving  that  her 

was  one  o'  em "  He  stopped  short,  adding 

abruptly,  "  They  be  all  women,  same  as  the 
rest.  An'  wot's  a  wuman  ?  Wot's  a  wuman 
when  hur's  poor  ?  Wot's  a  wuman,  any 
way  ? "  and  fell  back  again  to  staring  across 
the  black-faced  creek. 

"  Ay,  blank  'em  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  niver 
thort  much  o'  winien  rneself.  Whistle  and 
they'll  come  to  'ee,  most  o'  'em ;  an'  the  more 
you  kick  'em,  the  more  they'll  lick  yer  hands. 

But  her Arter  a  bit,  I  took  to  wishing 

her  was  the  same  as  the  rest ;  I  wanted  her 
badly,  an'  ther  was  a  blanked  line  at  ween  us 
that  I  couldn't  cross,  do  wot  I  wud.  I  said 
to  myself,  '  Wot's  this  blamed  line  you  have 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  55 

got  hold  of  in  yer  head,  Dick  Atter  ?  Ther 
ain't  none  such  ;  the  wuman's  dirt  poor.  A 
man  who  was  a  man  wud  take  her,  use  her, 
and  fling  her  away.'  But  the  line  was  at  ween 
us,  the  line  was  at  ween  us. 

"  One  day  'twas  cold  and  rough,  and  the 
blanked  ship  rolling  fair  to  split  her  sides ; 
most  o'  the  passengers  was  sitting  wi'  chairs 
lashed  up  agin  the  hatchways,  and  all  their 
spare  swag  planked  on  top  o'  'em;  but  her 
stud,  kind  o'  hunting  for  shelter.  Ivery  now 
and  then  the  wind  'ud  come  full  on  her,  reg'lar 
licking  her  thin  clothes  up  agin  her  legs :  her 
hadn't  got  no  speshil  chair  the  same  as  the 
rest.  All  to  once  the  Cap'en — Cap'en  Thursby 
— came  along.  He  was  a  wild  un,  was  the 
Cap'en,  and  wud  play  up  hell  sometimes  wi' 
the  women.  But  he  was  a  sportsman — niver 
shot  his  bird  sitting ;  and  if  a  wuman  was 
pore  and  sorter  helpless,  reckoned  a  man  stud 
her  friend  by  keeping  away.  He'd  keep  away 
too,  an'  why  shudn't  he  ?  The  higher  game 
fell  to  him,  dropped  to  his  gun  pretty  much 
as  he  blanked  well  liked.  I  saw  the  Cap'en 
look  at  her  an'  frown,  then  look  an'  frown 
again :  'twas  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen 


56  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

her  to  take  notice  of.  Arter  a  bit  lie  fetched 
his  own  chair  and  a  couple  o'  rugs ;  he  made 
the  boatswain  lash  the  chair  well  out  o'  the 
wind,  and  wint  up  to  where  her  was  standing, 
took  off  his  hat  and  talked  sorter  quiet,  and 
her  smiled  and  turned  back  to  where  the  chair 
was,  and  sat  down.  Her  acted  terrible  nat'rel, 
as  if  ther  wasn't  nothing  speshil  in  it  one 
way  or  t'other ;  but,  blank  yer,  most  women 
wud  have  half  busted  therselves  squirming 
and  showing  their  pints.  The  Cap'en  he 
tucked  the  rugs  round  her  and  wint  away : 
they  didn't  see  over  much  of  one  'nother  arter 
that.  Sometimes  he'd  lend  her  a  book  or 
stop  and  talk  a  bit.  She  took  it  all  terrible 
simple ;  but  her  fell  a-thinking  o'  him  for 
all  that.  I  know,  'cos  I  watched  her  face.  I 
cussed  him  and  I  cussed  her,  and  I  cussed  the 
line  that  was  atween  me  and  her,  and  wasn't 
atween  her  and  him.  I  was  blanked  glad 
when  we  put  inter  Sydney,  where  men  are 
ekal,  and  I  cud  say  to  him,  i  There  ain't  no 
masters  and  servants  in  this  country;  you 
go  your  way  and  I'll  go  mine.'  He  smiled 
kind  o'  curious  to  hisself ;  he  saw  things  was 
pretty  wrong  wi'  me.  '  That's  how  you  wish, 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  57 

Atter,'  seys  he  ;  '  but  if  you  want  a  friend,' 
and  he  took  a  card  from  his  pocket  wi'  some 
thing  scrawled  on  it,  '  this  address  will  find 
me.'  Afore  I  knowed  wot  I  was  arter,  I  up 
wi'  my  hand  and  saluted ;  then  I  cussed  my 
self  for  a  blanked  tame  recruit,  tore  the  card 
across  and  spat  on  it,  ther,  to  his  face. 

"  Soon  arter  that  the  Cap'en  went  up  coun 
try  jackerooing,1  but  I  hung  about  Sydney 
cos  she  was  ther.  Her  got  a  situation  for  the 
first  few  months,  then  her  left  and  tramped 
round  arter  work,  growing  poor — cockatoo  2 
poor.  Australia  was  a  bit  too  noo  for  shabby 
dressed  women.  One  afternoon,  I  reckon 
her  was  feeling  terrible  off  colour ;  her  took 
the  penny  steamboat  across  to  one  o'  the 
islands,  and  I  followed.  I  hadn't  let  her 
know  that  I  was  still  in  Sydney,  and  I  kept 
aft  so  her  shudn't  spot  me,  and  when  her 
landed  I  did  my  tracking  careful,  same  as 
usual.  At  last  she  sat  down.  'Twas  a  lone 
some  spot, — the  trees  that  thick  all  round 
ther  wasn't  room  in  'em  for  a  dog  to  bark. 
Her  sat  thinking  and  thinking,  and  I  watched 

1  J 'acker 'oo— &  lately  arrived  colonist. 
3  A  settler  on  a  small  farm. 


58  LIFE   IS  LIFE 

her  and  sed  to  myself :  t  Dick  Atter,  if  you're 
the  man  I  take  yer  for,  you'll  yard  and  brand 
that  filly  once  for  all !  '  But  the  blanked 
line  was  atween  us,  and  I  cudn't  stir  hand 
nor  fut.  All  to  a  sudden  it  coomed  to  me 
that  her  was  a-thinking  o'  the  Cap'en,  and 
wi'  that  the  line  melted  like  wax.  I  rose  to 
my  feet  and  coomed  towards  her,  and  her 
rose  to  her  feet  too,  and  us  stood  looking  at 
one  'nother.  I  reckon  my  face  was  a  devil's 
face,  for  her  got  sheet- white ;  but  her  stood 
there  terrible  quiet  and  proud,  and  the  line 
came  atween  us  agin,  cutting  me  off.  And 
when  I  felt  that  the  line  was  atween  us 
agin,  I  swore  to  break  it  and  her.  '  Cap'en 
Thursby  is  dead,'  sed  I,  and  her  fell  at 
my  feet  as  one  wi'  the  life  knocked  out 

from   her "     He  stopped  abruptly,   and 

wrenched  apart  his  shirt  at  the  throat. 
"  Then  'twas,"  he  said,  "  then  'twas  .  .  .  my 
brain  and  heart  seemed  to  burst ;  but  her 
was  mine,  and  the  line  might  work  its 
will.  Wot's  a  wuman  ?  Wot's  one  blanked 
wuman  more  than  another  ?  Wot's  a  wum 
an,  any  way  ?  Then  I  hid  among  the  scrub, 
and  by  and  bye  her  corned  to  herself ;  and 


LIFE  IS  LIFE  59 

wi'  the  consciousness  corned  the  tears,  and 
her  sat  ther  and  cried  'cos  her  thort  the 
Cap'en  was  dead.  But  her  didn't  know 
her  was  dead  herself — her  didn't  know  her 
was  dead  herself.  But  wot's  a  wuraan 
when  her's  poor?  If  her  ain't  bad,  her 
shud  be ;  'tis  her  own  fault  if  her  ain't. 
But  wot's  one  wuman  more  than  another? 
Wot's  a  wuman,  any  way  ? 

"  An'  the  months  went  on.  Her  was  poor, 
workus  poor,  and  I  waited  for  her  to  go  to  hell 
o'  herself — I  reckoned  ifc  'ud  be  one  then — but 
her  wudn't  go,  her  wudn't  go :  'twas  the  line 
that  held  her  back ;  ifc  always  stud  atween  her 
and  me.  Then  her  got  a  situation,  but  four 
months  later  they  turned  her  out  into  the 
streets;  and  I  watched  her  close — I  feared 
she'd  drown  herself  for  horror  o'  wot  she  bore 
w'in  her.  Then  I  went  to  a  wuman  that  I 
knowed  and  told  the  truth,  word  for  word  as 
it  was,  and  she  took  her  in  and  cared  for  her. 
Agin  the  winder  of  her  room  a  green  wilier 
tree  rubbed  its  branches  sorter  friendly,  and 
she  lay  and  stared  at  the  wilier,  and  stared. 
Then  her  chil'  was  born ;  it  wos  a  boy,  fine 
and  healthy,  and  her  was  terrible  content  at 


60  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

last,  'cos  her  had  gone  inad,  and  reckoned  her 
was  Cap'en  Thursby's  wife,  and  the  chil'  his 
chil'.  I  went  up  country  and  worked  for  'em. 
Two  years  later  I  corned  across  the  Cap'en ; 
he  spoke  kind  to  me,  bat  I  could  have  killed 
him  where  he  stud ;  but  a  blanky  bullock  did 
it  for  me — horned  him  in  the  drafting  yards, 
bashing  him  up  agin  the  postesses.  They 
put  a  bullet  through  the  beast,  but  the  Cap'en 
he  was  most  done  for :  he  just  axed  me  to 
take  a  message  for  him  to  the  old  Squire, 
and  the  blood  rose  up  in  his  throat  and  choked 
the  life  out  o'  him.  The  manager  sealed  the 
Cap'en's  watch  and  chain  in  a  bit  o'  paper 
and  gived  it  to  me,  and  I  left  the  station  and 
went  down  south  to  Sydney,  sorter  blind  stu 
pid  'cos  I  cudn't  fix  things  up  in  my  mind  one 
way  or  tother.  When  I  got  to  Sydney  they 
told  me  her  was  dying,  and  had  axed  for  me. 
I  cursed  her,  and  said  I  wudn't  go  a-nigh  her; 
but  I  walked  up  and  down  the  street  afore 
her  door  night  and  day,  and  at  last,  whether 
I  wud  or  no,  I  entered  the  house  and  went  up 
the  stairs  and  stud  at  the  door  o'  her  room. 
I  cudn't  knock  and  I  cudn't  stir,  but  I  stood 
ice-cold,  wi'  the  sweat  upon  me.  Then  some 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  61 

one  opened  the  door;  she  called  me,  and  I 
was  fo'ced  to  come.  She  was  lying  propped 
up  wi'  pillys,  the  child  aside  her,  and  death 
most  nigh  as  near ;  the  sheets  was  blanked 
coarse,  and  her  bit  o'  night-shift  nort  to  speak 
of,  but,  damn  yer,  it  only  made  the  breeding 
in  her  show  the  more.  'Atter,'  she  said, '  take 
him  back  to  his  people  and  tell  them  he  is  a 
Thursby  and  a  gentleman,' — then  she  sorter 
tried  to  hold  yer  towards  me,  and  fell  back 
dead.  So  I  took  yer  to  the  old  Squire  and 
sed  wot  her  told  me ;  her  thought  you  was  a 
Thursby — maybe  her  knows  better  now.  But 
wot's  a  wuman? — wot's  one  wuman  more 
than  another  ? — wot's  a  wuman,  any  way  ?  " 

He  rose  from  the  ground.  "  'Twas  the  line 
that  did  it,"  he  muttered,  walking  across  to 
where  his  horse  stood.  "  'Twas  atween  us 
then ;  'tis  atween  us  now,"  and  mounting  he 
rode  away  in  search  of  the  horses. 

An  overpowering  horror  of  this  man  who 
was  his  father  came  to  Humphrey,  wiping  out 
all  other  feelings.  Raising  himself,  he  crept 
away  on  his  hands  and  knees  through  the  rank 
grass ;  but  as  he  struggled  forward  he  met 
Atter  returning,  driving  the  horses  before 


62  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

him.  Bullocky  burst  into  a  rough  laugh. 
"  So  yer  reckoned  to  give  me  the  slip,"  he  ex 
claimed. 

"  I  can't  go  with  you,"  said  the  boy,  rising 
to  his  feet.  "  I'd  rather  be  bushed  outright." 

"Is  your  little  bit  o'  privit  hell  so  cursed 
much  too  much  for  yer  ? "  Atter  answered. 
"  Yer  fool,  yer  don't  know  what  hell  is ;  yer 
ain't  niver  bin  in  it." 

"  It  isn't  myself,  it's  Tier"  said  the  boy. 

"Her!"  exclaimed  Atter— " her !  her's 
mine,  not  yers.  Ain't  I  gone  to  hell  for  her  ? 
Ain't  the  blanked  line  round  my  neck  night 
and  day  'cos  o'  her  ?  " 

"  For  God's  sake,  Atter,  leave  me,"  the  boy 
said. 

u  Leave  yer,"  Atter  answered ;  "  no,  by  God, 
I'll  not  leave  yer.  I  did  once,  'cos  her  told 
me,  but  now — yer  part  of  her,  that's  wot  yer 
are,  tho'  her  don't  belong  to  yer;  you  laid 
agin  her,  that's  wot  you  did,  tho'  her  didn't 
want  'ee.  Ay,  and  by  the  living  God,  and 
more  than  agin  her ;  twas  you  her  was  f o'ced 
to  carry  whether  her  wud  or  no ;  'twas  you 
her  was  f  o'ced  to  born,  tho'  her  went  mad  for 
it " 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  63 

"  And  I  would  like  to  kill  you  for  that,  you 
devil,"  cried  the  boy.  "  But  I  ain  bliiid,  you 
devil,— I'm  blind  !  " 

"  Kill  me,"  repeated  Atter,  laughing  wildly. 
"I  can't  die,  that's  part  o'  it;  I'm  forced  to 
live  wi'  the  line  strangling  me — half  stran 
gled,  but  never  dead." 

The  man's  fierce  agony  beat  upon  the  boy, 
but  he  was  dull  and  impervious  to  it. 

"  She  was  helpless,  and  a  woman,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  reckon  to  be  the  first  to  think  of 
that,  yer  fool,  yer  rouse-about,  yer  blanked 
jackaroo  !  "  cried  Atter  fiercely.  "  You  that 
have  been  playing  the  busted  fine  gentleman 
all  your  life,  how  long  have  yer  bin  in  hell 
'cos  o'  her  tears,  'cos  o'  her  pain  ?  Go  and  git 
they  sheep's  eyes  o'  yers  put  right;  start 
crying  on  yer  own  account,  and  leave  her 
to  me." 

He  slung  himself  to  the  ground  as  he 
spoke,  caught  and  saddled  the  other  horses, 
cording  the  swag  across  the  pack-saddle. 

"  Come,"  he  said  to  the  boy,  "  here's  yer 
stirrup " 

"  I'll  not  go  with  you,"  cried  Humphrey, 
with  growing  excitement.  "  Aren't  you  con- 


64  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

tent  with  what  you  have  done  ?  Do  you  want 
to  drive  me  mad  too  ?  " 

"  By  the  living  Gawd,  I'll  make  yer  come," 
Bullocky  answered,  taking  a  quick  step  tow 
ards  the  boy.  Then  the  passion  died  out 
of  his  face,  and,  stopping  short,  "Mad,"  he 
exclaimed  in  an  altered  voice — "  mad — 'twas 
her  I  sent  mad;  yer  I  blinded.  Mother  and 
son ;  mother  and  son." 

The  boy  shuddered.  "  No  power  on  earth 
will  make  me  acknowledge  myself  your  son," 
he  said.  "  It  can't  be  true ;  it  can't  be  true." 

"'Tis  sorter  blanked  true  all  the  same," 
Atter  answered  slowly — "  sorter  blanked  tar 
nation  true." 

There  was  a  sound  of  approaching  foot 
steps,  and  four  police  troopers  closed  in  upon 
them. 

"  Hands  up,  Bullocky,  or  we'll  fire,"  they 
said,  levelling  revolvers. 

Atter  made  no  effort  to  escape,  but  stood 
stone-still,  staring  at  his  son's  face,  with  its 
expression  of  sudden  joy,  of  great  elation. 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  65 


CHAPTER    III 

Atter  was  tried  at  the  Sydney  Assizes  for 
manslaughter  (the  police  trooper  had  died), 
and  sentenced  to  three  years'  hard  labour. 
He  accepted  the  sentence  with  callous  in 
difference  ;  no  vision  of  the  murdered  trooper 
haunted  him  ;  between  him  and  the  memory 
of  other  misdeeds  there  stood  a  dead  woman, 
and  into  his  fierce,  passionate  heart  had  come 
a  fierce,  passionate  need  of  her  forgiveness. 
Longing  and  dumb — dumb  with  the  dumb 
ness  of  the  beasts  of  the  field,  dumb  even  to 
himself — he  could  not  analyse  his  own  ter 
rible  yearning.  Remorse,  like  cancer,  spread 
fibrous  hands  upon  his  life  and  ate  its  slow 
way  into  his  heart ;  yet  he  did  not  realise 
what  ailed  him,  and,  racked  by  conscience, 
scarce  understood  that  he  had  sinned.  Ill, 
dying,  he  toiled  with  the  unceasing  energy  of 
a  man  who  would  out-toil  his  own  thoughts. 
Work  forbidden  him,  confined  to  the  hos 
pital,  he  wept  like  a  child,  and  lay  with  his 
face  turned  towards  the  ward  door,  as  if  he 

5 


66  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

waited  for  the  entry  of  some  bringer  of  heal 
ing.  The  prison  chaplain,  knowing  the  man 
to  be  dying,  and  struck  by  the  expression  of 
acute  misery  on  the  gaunt  face,  asked  if  there 
was  any  person  that  he  desired  to  see. 

"  Is  there  some  one,"  he  asked  gently, 
"  whose  forgiveness  would  make  you  hap 
pier  ?  " 

"  Forgiveness  !  "  repeated  Atter,  glancing 
at  him  in  astonishment — "  wot  the  blanky 
blank  should  I  want  with  forgiveness  ;  I  ain't 
done  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of.  I've  alles 
acted  the  man." 

The  chaplain  smiled,  but  made  no  further 
suggestion,  and  Atter  fell  back  again  to  star 
ing  at  the  closed  door.  He  did  not  know 
whose  face  it  was  that  he  waited  for  with 
such  an  intensity  of  yearning ;  but  one  day 
the  chaplain  entered,  and  with  him  was  Hum 
phrey,  and  when  Atter's  eyes  fell  upon  his 
son  there  came  to  him  a  sudden  great  elation. 

"  I  sorter  thought  yer  wud  come,"  he  ex 
claimed.  "I  sorter  thought  it;  I  sorter 
thought  it." 

Humphrey  stumbled  forward  till  within 
a  few  paces  of  the  bed,  and  stood  stock-still, 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  67 

his  terrible  repulsion  of  the  man  seeming  to 
bind  him  hand  and  foot.  The  chaplain  went 
out,  leaving  them  alone. 

"  I've  bin  reckoning  things  out,''  continued 
Atter,  "  reckoning  things  out  a  bit ;  but  I've 
lost  the  hang  o'  'em,  yer  came  so  blanked 
sudden.  I  sorter  thought  yer  wud  come,  tho' ; 
sorter  thought  it.  They  blanked  eyes  o'  yers 
ain't  bin  after  healing,  I  see ;  well,  I  sorter 
reckoned  they  wudn't,  sorter  reckoned  they 
wud  n't.  Things  have  gone  on  the  cross  wi' 
me  iver  since  I  played  on  the  cross  wi'  her, 
and  her  was  nothing  but  a  blanked  wuman, 
and  wot's  a  wuman,  any  way  ? " 

Humphrey  shuddered.  "Atter,"  he  said, 
rushing  into  speech  to  avoid  the  greater  horror 
of  listening,  "  I've  been  a  mucker  myself  since 
we  parted.  I  speculated  with  some  money  of 
— of — my  grandfather's — of — of — ,  I  mean — 
the  Squire's ;  he  sent  it  to  me  under  the  im 
pression  that  I  was  his  grandson — you  under 
stand, — well,  I  speculated  with  the  money." 

Atter's  face  lit  up.  "  Yer  lost  it,  and  corned 
to  me  sorter  reckoning  I  wud  help  yer  make 
it  good.  Ay,  I  know  the  brand  ! " 

The  blood  rushed  up  to  the  boy's  fore- 


68  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

head.  "  No,"  lie  answered — ano,  no;  not  for 
that? 

But  Atter  did  not  heed  him,  into  his  eyes 
had  come  an  expression  of  mighty  triumph. 
"  Wot's  bred  in  the  bone  'ull  come  out  in  the 
flesh,"  he  cried.  "  'Twas  my  blood  in  yer 
that  forced  'ee  to  do  it.  Y'are  my  son ;  yer 
ain't  no  blanked  Thursby.  Didn't  I  tell  yer 
yer  wasn't  no  blanked  Thursby ;  y'are  my  son 
and  hers,  my  son  and  hers." 

As  the  words  fell  on  Humphrey's  ears  he 
staggered  forward  and  clutched  at  the  iron 
bedstead  for  support,  missed  it,  and  fell  across 
the  man's  feet.  Atter  stretched  out  his  great, 
coarse,  trembling  hands  towards  his  son. 

"  My  oath,"  he  said,  "  ye're  blind,  stone- 
blind.  I  didn't  reckon  on  yer  being  stone- 
blind  ;  I  didn't  sorter  reckon  on  yer  being 
stone-blind." 

"  Stone-blind  !  "  repeated  the  boy,  "  stone- 
blind!" 

Atter  stared  down  on  him  in  silence ;  the 
silence  swelled,  the  agony  in  the  man's  heart 
fighting  with  it ;  at  last  he  spoke.  "  Go  back 
along  'ome  to  'em,"  he  said,  "  they  care  for 
yer.  Go  back  and  be  a  blanked  Thursby ;  I'll 


LIFE  IS   LIFE 


never  blab  on  yer.  Go  and  be  a  blanked 
gintleman,  they'll  never  know;  they'll  be 
glad  to  see  yer ;  they'll  miss  yer ;  yer'll  be 
at  'ome  ther,  you  ain't  niver  bin  easy  'long 


o'  me." 


"  Atter,  Atter,"  sobbed  the  boy,  "  I'm  stone- 
blind;  the  doctor  told  me  there  was  no  hope." 

"  Go  back  to  'em,  then,"  Atter  answered. 
"  Wot's  the  good  o'  yer  staying  here  ?  Yer 
can't  play  no  blanked  concertina ;  yer  can't 
go  on  the  wallaby  wi'  a  blanked  dawg  and  a 
piece  of  string." 

The  boy's  shoulders  shook  with  sobs,  but 
he  made  no  answer. 

"  Go  back  to  'em,"  harped  Atter.  "  Yer  ain't 
built  for  nort  else ;  yer  was  alles  blanked  tar 
nation  shook  on  being  a  busted  gintleman ;  go 
back  and  be  one,  then — I'll  never  blab  on  'ee." 

"  You  don't  understand,"  said  Humphrey. 

"  But  yer  are  shook  on  being  a  gintleman." 

"Yes." 

"Ah!"— triumphantly,  "  thet's  her  blood 
in  'ee.  'Twas  mine  thet  made  yer  a  thief ; 
hers  wud  make  'ee  a  gintleman ;  my  son 
and  hers,  my  son  and  hers," — again  his  face 
glowed. 


70  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

There  was  a  long  silence, — then  the  boy 
raised  his  blind  eyes  to  Atter's  face. 

"  It's  no  use,'7  he  said,  "  I  can't  go  back ; 
it's  too  late." 

"  Why  too  late  ?  " 

"  I've  told  them  the  truth.  It  is  the 
truth  ?  "  he  added — with  a  wild  hope  that 
Atter  might  even  yet  contradict  his  former 
statement. 

"Ay,  God's  truth." 

"  I've  told  them,  then." 

"  You've  told  'em  ?— told  the  old  Squire  ? 
Yer  have  owned  up — owned  to  the  brand  ? 
Yer  sed — I  was  yer — father  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

Into  Atter's  hard,  brutal  face  there  came 
an  expression  of  gladness,  of  great  radiance  ; 
suddenly  his  expression  changed.  "  Yer  ain't 
so  blanked  set  on  being  a  gintleman  arter 
all,"  he  said. 

The  boy  winced.  "Clinging  to  a  name 
ih at  was  not  mine  would  not  make  me  a 
gentleman,"  he  answered. 

"  If  nobody  knowed,  'twud." 

"  But  I  should  know." 

"  Wot  blanked  difference  wud  that  make  ? " 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  71 

"  Atter,"  said  the  boy,  "  you  don't  under 
stand." 

"  Maybe  I  don't ;  'tis  a  busted  ring-tailed 
consarn,  any  way.  So  yer  are  going  to  let 
the  gintleman  business  slide,"  he  continued  in 
a  regretful  voice. 

His  son  was  silent,  the  colour  coming  and 
going  in  his  face.  "No,"  he  said,  half  to 
himself,  "  I  don't  think  so." 

"  Yer'll  go  back  to  'em  then,  and  ask  'em 
not  to  peach  on  'ee  ?  " 

"No." 

"Stay  here?" 

"Yes." 

"  Wot — and  play  a  blanked  concertina !  " 

"  Something  of  the  sort." 

"  Thet  ain't  being  a  gintleman." 

Humphrey  raised  his  blind  eyes  towards 
the  light.  "The  Squire  said  once,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "  that  as  long  as  a  man  is  a  man,  he, 
for  one,  wouldn't  ask  more  of  him." 

"But,"  replied  Atter,  "that's  a  pore  tale  ; 
I've  bin  a  gintleman  myself  on  that  show- 
ing." 

"  It's  no  poor  thing  to  keep  one's  record 
clean,"  the  boy  answered ;  "  I  haven't,  but 


72  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  he  was  silent  a  moment.  "  It  doesn't 

matter  then,"  he  continued,  "  how  much  one 
fails  in  other  things,  one  need  not  fear  to  look 
any  man  in  the  face." 

"  Thet  a  gintleman !  "  exclaimed  Atter  de 
risively.  "  Why,  blank  yer,  I  niver  was 
af eared  to  look  no  blamed  joker  between  the 
eyes ;  but  then  the  Squire  was  a  musclely 
man  hisself." 

Humphrey  made  no  comment,  and  after  a 
while  Atter  continued  in  a  dull,  monotonous 
voice,  as  if  talking  aloud  to  himself :  "  I  niver 
was  af  eared  of  no  man  living  nor  dead,  niver ; 
and  niver  had  no  cause  to  be  ashamed  o'  not 
acting  the  man ;  her  and  the  line  near  got  the 
best  o'  me  once ;  but  I  broke  'em,  her  and  the 
line  togither ;  no  man  can  throw  it  at  me  that 
I  didn't  break  'em :  I  broke  'em,  and — I  broke 
meself  a-breaking  'em  ;  but  no  man  can  throw 
it  at  me  that  I  didn't  break  'em  first.  No  ; 
as  I  sed  afore,  I  ain't  done  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of,  and  ther's  on'y  two  thet  I  knows 
on  thet  I  wud  like  to  make  things  right  with  : 
one  wos  her ;  I  cud  niver  make  things  right 
wi'  her,  'cos  her  sorter  got  away  from  me, 
sorter  kept  outside;  wint  mad,  and  sorter 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  73 

kept  outside.  Ther  was  on'y  her  and  one 
other,  the  lad  her  borned — her  son  and  mine, 
her  son  and  mine." 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  the  boy,  staring 
with  blind  eyes  into  a  dark  world,  made  no 
answer. 

"  It's  a  queer  thing,"  continued  Atter,  "  a 
queer  ring-tailed  thing.  I  hadn't  sorter  spe- 
shil  wanted  to  work  her  no  harm — hadn't 
sorter  speshil  wanted  to  hurt  'em,  either  o' 
'em ;  but  I  sent  her  mad,  I  blinded  him — 
mother  and  son,  mother  and  son." 

"  You  didn't  mean  to  blind  me,"  Humphrey 
answered  huskily. 

"  I  hadn't  no  sorter  speshil  wish — no  sorter 
speshil  wish." 

"  I  shall  pull  through  all  right,"  said  Hum 
phrey.  "  I'm  not  beaten  yet." 

"Yer  ain't  beaten  yit,"  Atter  answered, 
"  but  yer  won't  niver  make  things  right  wi' 


me." 


"  Atter,"  exclaimed  the  boy,  "  I  could  if  it 
weren't  for  her." 

"Her,"  repeated  Atter,  and  his  voice  was 
infinitely  sad — "her,  her,  her;  her  corned 
atween  me  and  herself,  her  comes  atween  me 


74  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

and  ner  son ;  her  was  niver  name  tho'  I  held 
her  in  my  arms;  and  when  I  reckoned  to 
have  her  body  and  soul,  her  stud  away  from 
rne — her  stud  away  from  me." 

"Atter,  Atter,"  said  the  boy,  "Atter, 
Atter." 

"Ay,  Atter,  Atter,"  the  man  repeated, 
"  Atter,  Atter ;  Atter  'twas  wi'  yer  from  the 
fust,  Atter  'twill  be  wi'  yer  to  the  end." 

"  Father,"  said  the  boy  huskily. 

In  hesitation  the  words  came  stuttering 
forth.  Atter's  heart  stopped  a  beat  to  listen, 
and  then  slammed  back  against  his  ribs,  the 
whole  man  rocking  in  the  unreality  of  his  own 
happiness.  He  put  out  his  hands  in  trem 
bling  hesitation,  then,  conquered  by  all- 
mastering  desire,  drew  the  boy  to  him,  up 
against  his  breast ;  and  within  the  breast  his 
heart  clanged  and  throbbed  as  some  impris 
oned  engine.  Gripped  close  in  his  father's 
arms,  inert  from  pity,  sundered  from  him  by 
repulsion,  the  son's  mind  groped  in  agonising 
longing  for  some  link  that  should  be  an 
ennobling  bond  of  union. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "shall  we  not  lead 
straighter  lives  because  of  her  ?  " 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  75 

Tlie  great  engine  within  Atter's  breast 
strained  more  wildly  against  its  imprison 
ment. 

"Her  cudn't  change  me  when  her  was 
alive  ;  her'll  never  do  it  now  her's  dead,"  he 
answered.  "  No,  no,  I'll  bide  as  I  am  :  when 
my  time  comes  for  loosing  ropes  and  slipping 
the  stock-yard  rails,  I  reckon  hell  'ull  about  do 
me — a  place  where  a  man  can  curse  free  and 
fight  for  his  own,  come  God,  come  devil," — 
and  so  saying,  his  heart  burst  bonds,  his  grip 
on  his  son  relaxed,  and  with  a  sob  he  fell  back 
dead. 


PART  III 

HUMPHREY,  SON  OF  ATTER 

CHAPTER    I 

IT  was  late  afternoon;  Atter  had  been 
buried  in  the  prison  graveyard,  and  Hum 
phrey,  refusing  the  chaplain's  offer  of  a  tem 
porary  home,  returned  to  his  lodgings.  They 
were  ill-furnished  rooms  in  a  mean  street,  but 
the  rent  was  more  than  he  could  afford,  and 
he  decided  that  he  must  leave  them.  On  the 
mantelpiece  in  the  sitting-room  was  an  un 
opened  telegram.  Searching  with  his  long, 
awkward  fingers,  Humphrey  found  and  held 
the  telegram  a  moment  in  his  hand  before 
tearing  it  slowly  into  bits, — then  he  left  the 
room  and  the  house. 

He  crossed  the  street,  taking  short,  unde 
cided  steps, — resenting  as  ignominious  the 
necessity  which  obliged  him  to  tap  with  his 

76 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  77 

stick  each  foot  of  the  ground  in  advance, — 
and,  wandering  on,  turned  at  last  into  a  blind 
alley  in  one  of  the  poorest  quarters  of  the 
town.  Seated  close  to  a  doorstep,  a  short, 
deep-chested  man  was  mending  the  broken 
ribs  of  a  still  more  broken  umbrella,  whist 
ling  over  his  work  with  such  evident  satisfac 
tion  that  Humphrey  could  not  help  sharing  in 
the  enjoyment. 

"  Good  day,"  said  the  man ;  "  I  reckon,  by 
the  sound  of  your  stick,  you're  blind  yirself." 

"  Were  you  whistling  just  now  ? "  asked 
Humphrey  in  reply. 

"I  was  so." 

"  Well,  I  should  never  have  imagined  that 
you  were  blind." 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  the  man ;  "  I  ain't 
heard  as  blindness  puts  a  shut  on  whistling." 

Humphrey  leant  up  against  the  wall  of  the 
house ;  the  stick  slipping  from  his  hand  com 
pelled  him  to  grovel  along  the  none  too  clean 
street  in  search  of  it,  and  when,  the  stick  re 
gained,  he  once  more  resumed  his  position,  his 
face  burnt  with  anger  and  tears  of  shame 
stood  in  his  eyes. 

"  Great  heavens !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  how  I 


78  LIFE   IS  LIFE 

liate  being  compelled  to  tap  my  way  along 
with  a  stick." 

"  Well,"  said  the  man,  "  the  stick  was  put 
in  the  world  to  be  o'  some  use,  I  reckon,  the 
same  as  the  rest  o'  us ;  but  then,"  he  added, 
"maybe  you're  noo  to  it, — a  stick  wants 
knowing  the  same  as  a  man.  I  fell  out  with 
my  little  gidea  a  mint  o'  times  before  us  took 
to  one  another  comfortable,  and  now  us  is  as 
thick  as  thieves." 

Humphrey  smiled.  "  How  long  have  you 
been  blind? "  he  asked. 

"  A  matter  o'  twenty  years." 

"  Twenty  years  !  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  man,  "  you'll  be  saying 
the  like  some  day,  I  reckon." 

Humphrey  turned  the  subject  with  a 
shudder.  "What  are  you  working  at?" 
he  said. 

"Mending  ginghams,  and  a  mighty  pore 
trade  it  is,  by  the  same  token." 

"  I  wonder  you  don't  hang  yourself." 

"  Wot  good  wud  that  do,  wi'  the  Missus 
slaving  herself  to  the  bone  as  'tis  ?  " 

"  You  have  a  wife  dependent  on  you  ?  " 

"  Well,"  replied  the  man,  with  a  slow  smile, 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  79 

"  us  puts  it  that  way,  though  maybe  the  truth 
is  t'other  end  about." 

Humphrey  was  silent  a  moment,  he  won 
dered  at  the  man  acknowledging  so  lightly  a 
galling  dependence. 

"  How  did  you  become  blind  ?  "  he  asked 
at  length.  "  Was  it  an  accident  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  one  of  they  things  that  there  ain't 
no  speshil  reason  why  they  should  happen, 
but  happen  they  does.  I  was  doing  a  job  o' 
fencing  up  Cooram ingle  way  ;  'twas  summer, 
and  powerful  hot  by  the  same  token  ;  I  had 
sandy  blight  tarnation  bad — sorter  feel  as  if 
yer  eyes  was  full  of  red-hot  grit ;  termaters 
is  the  best  thing,  cut  'em  in  half  and  reg'lar 
soak  your  eyes  in  the  squash ;  but  there 
wasn't  no  termaters,  so  I  had  to  blamed  well 
do  without  'em.  Jim  Day,  the  chap  I  was 
working  'long  with,  a  good-hearted  jumbuck 
but  a  reg'lar  mutton-head,  let  on  to  me  that 
he  had  some  doctor's  stuff  that  wud  put  a  set 
on  the  blight  smart  enough.  I  hadn't  no 
great  trust  in  Jim's  cures,  but  my  eyes  was 
that  bad  I  thort  they  couldn't  be  much  wuss, 
so  I  ses  to  him,  'Jim,  bring  out  that  healing 
o'  nations  o'  a  cure  o'  yirs ; '  so  he  brought  it 


80  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

out,  powerful  pleased, — a  better-hearted  chap 
there  never  was.  i  You  must  go  the  whole 
hog,  Joe,'  he  ses;  'half  measures  ain't  no 
manner  o'  use ;  set  to,  and  souse  yir  eyes  in 
it,  same  as  if  they  was  afire.  My  oath  !  but 
they  look  bad  !  " 

"  '  Holy  Moses  !  but  this  stuff  o'  yirs  is 
powerful  strong,  Jim,'  I  ses;  'twas  burning 
fair  to  scorch  my  eyes  out. 

"  '  It's  got  a  decent  opinion  o'  itself,'  ses  he. 

"  '  Well,'  I  ses,  *  it  fair  needs  to,  for  I  much 
misdoubt  if  'twill  find  another  to  speak  for  it, 
less  'tis  a  salamander.' 

"  *  Be  they  easing  a  bit  now  ? '  ses  Jim. 

"  I  lifted  up  my  head.  '  Jim,'  I  ses,  '  have 
I  any  eyes  left,  for,  by  all  the  snakes,  I  feel 
the  same  as  if  they  was  burnt  clean  out  ! ' 

"  i  Strike  me  dead  ! '  ses  Jim,  i  but  I  think 
they're  healing  slow.' 

"  '  You  ain't  got  hold  of  the  wrong  stuff  ? ' 
ses  I. 

"  i  I'll  take  another  look  at  the  bottle,'  ses 
he.  '  Why,  'tis  Barty's  Patent  Sciatica 
Singe-ger,  by  all  the  crawling  sons  o'  a  bul 
lock  ! '  he  cried. 

" '  Well,'    ses   I,    '  it's  patented   me  sure 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  81 

enough  ; '  and  so  it  had,  licked  the  sight  out 
o'  my  eyes  as  clean  as  a  cat  a  cream- jug. 
Holy  Moses  !  but  I  was  fair  mad  wi'  Jim  at 
the  time,  but  now  there  ain't  one  day  in  seven 
that  I  notices  there's  anything  wrong  with 
my  eyes  at  all." 

"  Can  a  man  get  as  used  to  being  blind  as 
that?" 

"  Blind  ain't  the  right  name  for  it.  You 
sees  less  of  the  outside  of  a  pussen's  head, 
but  you  learns  a  deal  more  wot  goes  on 
inside  o'  it;  and,  'pon  my  sam,  you  gains 
by  the  change,  tho'  I  allow  'tis  tarnation 
hard  to  swaller.  Jest  you  wait  till  you've 
bin  blind  as  long  as  I  have,  and,  mark  me, 
you'll  say  the  same." 

Humphrey  was  silent ;  the  colour  came  and 
went  in  his  face.  "  Is  your  work  difficult  ?  " 
he  asked  at  last. 

"  No ;  any  mug  could  learn  it." 

"  Well " — hurriedly — "  take  me  as  a  pupil 
— an  apprentice.  I  mean — I — I  wish  you 
would." 

"  In  the  umbrella  trade  ?  What's  bin  your 
line  so  far  ? "  the  man  asked  in  an  astonished 
voice. 


82  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

The  blood  rushed  back  into  Humphrey's 
face.  "  I  have  never  done  much  worth  the 
doing,  I'm  afraid,"  he  answered. 

"  How  long  have  you  bin  blind  ?  " 

"  Six  months." 

"  You  haven't  got  the  feel  o'  your  fingers 
yit,  then  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  muff  things  rather." 

"  Ain't  you  got  no  friends  ?  " 

"  I  hate  being  dependent." 

"That's  it,  is  it?" 

"I  could  pay  for  my  food  and  lodging 
for  the  first  few  months,"  Humphrey  plead 
ed. 

A  woman  walked  with  heavy  tread  from 
the  interior  of  the  house  and  joined  them. 

"  Don't  you  be  after  doing  nothing  rash, 
Joe,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  harsh,  high-pitched 
tone.  "  The  young  man's  a  step  above  us ; 
he's  stood  behind  counters — I  can  see  that 
by  the  look  of  his  hands." 

"  I  never  stood  behind  a  counter  in  my 
life  !  "  spluttered  Humphrey  indignantly. 

"  Then  you've  bin  after  no  good,  that's  all  I 
can  say,"  rejoined  the  woman.  "  Them  hands 
speaks  for  thirselves :  they  look,  for  all  the 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  83 

world,  the  same  as  William  Splinter's  hands 
did  after  he  corned  out  o'  jail." 

"  Hush,  mother  !  the  young  chap's  blind," 
Joe  interposed  soothingly.  "You  needn't 
pay  no  manner  o'  attention  to  what  she  ses," 
he  continued,  turning  to  Humphrey;  "her 
ain't  dipped  in  alum  farther  than  the  tongue." 

Humphrey  laughed  a  little  awkwardly, 
and  the  woman  cast  a  quick  glance  at  him 
and  smiled  to  herself. 

"Now  go  along  in,  mother,  and  bring  us 
a  cup  o'  tea,"  said  Joe,  and  his  wife  returned 
once  more  to  the  kitchen.  "  I  used  to  give 
her  the  strap  one  time,"  he  continued,  lower 
ing  his  voice ;  "  that  was  when  I  could  see, 
the  same  as  the  rest.  Now  the  strap  hangs 
on  the  nail  aside  the  dresser,  and  I  find  her 
acts  a  sight  more  reasonable  wi'out  it.  A 
woman  is  a  queer  thing — more  heart  than 
sense  ;  but  the  sense  her  has  carries  her  tar 
nation  far  on  the  right  road." 

As  he  spoke  his  wife  called  them  into  the 
house  to  tea,  and  Humphrey,  drawing  his 
chair  forward  to  the  little  table,  felt  strange 
ly  content. 

"  How  good  your  bread  and  butter  tastes  ! " 


84  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

he  said.  "  I  do  wish  you  would  let  me  work 
under  you." 

Joe  laughed.  "  Holy  Moses  !  "  he  ex 
claimed,  "  but  that's  an  uncommon  rum  rea 
son  for  taking  to  a  trade — eh,  mother  ?  " 

The  woman's  somewhat  hard  face  softened 
into  a  smile.  "  Bread  and  butter  is  bread 
and  butter,"  she  answered  sententiously. 

"  Take  me  on  trial,"  urged  Humphrey, 
pressing  his  advantage  ;  "  I  shouldn't  be  any 
expense  to  you." 

"  What  do  you  say,  mother  ?  "  Joe  asked, 
and  the  boy  waited  with  keen  anxiety  for  the 
answer.  He  had  a  sudden  longing  to  be  near 
this  man,  who  was  blind,  and  whom  he  sus 
pected  of  being  happy. 

The  woman's  eyes  rested  a  moment  on  him 
with  a  half-amused,  half -pitying  expression. 
"  Oh,"  she  answered,  "  let  him  come ;  'tis  only 
a  fad.  'Twon't  last  long  any  way." 

"  Not  a  fad,  but  a  bargain  !  "  exclaimed 
Humphrey,  stretching  his  hand  across  the 
table  towards  her.  "  Shake  hands  on  it,  and 
wish  me  every  success  in  the  umbrella  trade." 

The  woman  took  the  proffered  hand  in  her 
crinkly  red  one  a  little  awkwardly.  "  Come 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  85 

right  up-stairs  and  look  at  your  room  first 
along,"  she  said.  "As  like  as  not  the  bed 
won't  suit  'ee.  'Tis  nought  but  a  straw  mat 
tress  ;  but  it's  clean,  I'll  lay  to  that." 

"  Oh,  bother  the  bed  !  "  exclaimed  Hum 
phrey.  "  Haven't  I  tasted  the  bread  and 
butter  ?  " 

"  Don't  try  and  come  over  me  with  yer  soft 
sawder,"  replied  the  woman  in  a  severe  voice. 
"  When  a  bed  is  hills  and  dales,  I  niver  heard 
as  bread  and  butter  'ud  mend  it." 

Humphrey  rose  and  stumbled  up  the  steep 
staircase. 

"  Now,"  she  exclaimed,  as  they  entered  the 
attic,  "  let  me  see  you  take  the  feel  o'  the 


room." 


Reddening,  the  boy  crossed  the  attic,  hands 
extended,  hitting  his  shins  against  the  poor 
bits  of  furniture. 

"  Stay  right  where  you  are,"  said  the 
woman  peremptorily.  He  halted.  "  Now, 
find  the  door,"  she  continued.  But  he  failed 
to  do  so,  knocking  the  little  painted  wash- 
stand  till  the  jug  rang  in  the  basin. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  you'll  never  be  a 
patch  on  Joe." 


86  LIFE  IS  LIFE 

Humphrey  rubbed  his  knees.  "  I  very 
much  doubt  if  I  shall,"  he  answered,  laugh 
ing.  But  the  woman  did  not  smile  in  return ; 
in  her  eyes  the  subject  was  too  serious  for 
smiles.  Leading  him  across  the  room,  she 
told  him  to  feel  the  mattress  ;  and  he  did  so 
half-heartedly. 

"Surely  that  is  mignonette  I  smell,"  he 
exclaimed,  brightening. 

Her  face  relaxed.  "  We  always  had  some 
in  the  Old  Country,  and  me  and  Joe  thought 
'twud  be  a  pore  thing  if  us  cudn't  have  some 
here,"  she  answered. 

"  You're  English  !  "  he  exclaimed,  adding 
impulsively,  "aren't  you,  aren't  you  home 
sick — sometimes,  I  mean  ?  " 

She  picked  a  dead  leaf  off  the  mignonette. 
"  Ah,  whiles,"  she  answered  slowly ;  "  but 
ther,  as  I've  said  many  a  time,  i  life's  life.' ' 

Humphrey  was  silent ;  at  last  he  spoke, 
changing  the  subject.  "Tell  me  about  the 
board,"  he  said.  "  Would  a  pound  a-week 
be  right  ?  " 

"  Why,  bless  us,"  she  answered,  "  half  that 
is  more  than  enough,  and  I'd  mend  and  wash 
'ee  for  the  same." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  87 

"  Am  I  to  have  bread  and  butter  every  day 
as  good  as  I  bad  this  afternoon  ?  "  he  asked, 
smiling. 

She  glanced  at  him  with  quick  suspicion ; 
but  his  boyish  face  with  its  look  of  suffering 
disarmed  her. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "you're  a  soft-tongued 
one,  you  are." 

"  You'll  forgive  me  for  not  having  stood 
behind  counters  or  been  in  jail  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Fve  known  good  men  who  have  done 
both,"  she  said. 

"  But  we  are  friends,"  he  urged :  his  smile 
was  whimsical,  but  there  was  almost  entreaty 
in  his  voice.  He  had  seated  himself  at  the  head 
of  the  bed  opposite  her.  She  looked  a  moment 
at  his  thin  white  face  before  answering. 

o 

"  I  shall  mother  'ee  my  own  way,"  she  said. 

Humphrey  returned  to  his  lodgings  full  of 
thought  but  very  elate.  His  landlady  met 
him  in  the  hall.  "A  letter,  sir,"  she  said; 
"  would  you  like  me  to  read  it  to  you  ?  "  she 
added,  with  an  uncurbed  curiosity  that 
jarred  upon  the  boy. 

"  No,  no,"  he  replied,  holding  out  his  hand 
for  the  letter. 


88  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"  From  England,"  she  continued,  still  re 
taining  her  hold  of  it. 

"Ah!" 

"  Post-mark  Thursby, — a  queer,  angular 
handwriting,  something  like  the  herring-bone 
stitch." 

"  My  grandfather's,"  exclaimed  Humphrey 
below  his  breath. 

"  Best  let  me  read  it  to  you,  sir." 

"No,  thanks,"  he  answered,  his  fingers 
closing  on  the  letter.  "  I'm  not  particularly 
interested  in  the  contents." 

"  Who  knows  but  it's  a  death  and  a  fort 
une,"  she  said,  striving  to  whet  his  curiosity. 

Humphrey  took  the  letter  from  her  with  a 
gentle  force,  and,  entering  his  room,  shut  the 
door  upon  the  prying  woman.  Stumbling 
into  a  chair  the  boy  sank  his  face  in  his 
hands.  "  Blind,  blind,  blind,"  he  sobbed, — 
"  blind,  blind,  blind, — I  can't  read  it  myself ; 
I  couldn't  stand  her  prying  eyes.  I  shall 
never  know  what  he  thinks;  I  shall  never 
know  what  he  thinks." 

Long  he  sat  staring  down  on  the  letter 
with  sightless  eyes;  the  sun  sank;  the 
woman  entered  with  a  lamp. 


LIFE   IS    LIFE  89 

"  IVe  brought  you  a  lamp,  sir,"  she  said  ; 
"maybe  it  will  be  welcome  to  you." 

He  laughed  brokenly.  "  Yes,"  he  an 
swered,  "  a  little  light,  a  little  light."  Then 
he  put  the  unopened  letter  in  his  pocket  and 
went  out. 


CHAPTER   II 

The  next  week  Humphrey  left  his  lodg 
ings  and  went  to  live  with  Joe  and  his  wife. 
Some  days  later  he  was  seated  with  an  old 
disreputable  umbrella  that  Joe  had  given 
him  to  repair  on  his  knees ;  but  the  only 
point  about  the  umbrella  of  which  he  felt 
complete  assurance  was  its  offensive  smell. 

"Joe,"  he  said,  "where  did  you  pick  up 
this  umbrella  ? " 

"  80  long  ago  I  can't  remember,"  the  man 
answered.  "  It's  the  one  I  learned  the  trade 
on.  What's  the  matter  with  it  ?  " 

"Smell  it." 

"  Don't  notice  nothing  particular,"  Joe  re 
plied,  handing  it  back.  "  Laid  in  a  drain,  I 
spose." 

Humphrey  dropped  the  umbrella,  and  its 


90  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

ancient  ribs  were  still  clattering  protestingly 
against  the  stone  floor  when  the  woman, 
entering  the  kitchen,  crossed  to  where  he 
sat  with  depression  heavy  upon  him. 

"  If  your  room  ain't  a  reglar  disgrace,  I 
don't  know  what  is,"  she  exclaimed.  "  Every 
thing  left  sixes  and  sevens,  as  if  I  hadn't 
enough  to  do  looking  after  a  blind  husband 
without  trapesing  round  after  you  all  day 
long.  Why,  it's  my  firm  belief  you've  stud 
in  that  basin,  which  ain't  big  enough  to  hold 
a  six  months'  old  baby,  and  had  a  bath  all 
round  it ;  the  whole  room  is  fair  swimming 
wi'  water,  and  that's  not  counting  the  things 
that  be  splashing  about  by  theirselves — a 
coat  here,  a  shirt  there,  and  goodness  knows 
what  else  anywhere  and  everywhere  !  Now, 
jest  you  march  straight  up-stairs  this  very 
instant  and  mop  up  ivery  drop  o'  that  watter 
yirself." 

Humphrey  stumbled  to  his  feet,  red  in 
the  face,  impelled  by  a  strong  desire  to  take 
flight  before  the  woman's  angry  tongue. 

"  Take  the  cloth  right  along  up  wi'  you," 
the  woman  continued,  thrusting  a  heavy 
moist  floor-cloth  into  his  reluctant  hands, 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  91 

"  and  don't  you  dare  show  your  face  down 
here  till  that  room  is  fit  to  be  seen !  " 

"  You  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  him,  mother," 
interposed  Joe  soothingly,  as  the  door  of 
Humphrey's  attic  closed  with  a  bang.  UI 
reckon  that  life  'long  o'  us  comes  fair  strange 
to  him." 

"'Twas  his  own  free  will  that  he  came 
here,  nobody  axed  him,"  replied  the  angry 
woman ;  "  but  as  like  as  not  he'll  be  putting 
his  bit  o'  things  together  at  this  very  minnit, 
and  a  good  riddance  too." 

"No,  no,  mother,  you  don't  mean  that," 
her  husband  answered.  "  Besides,  the  poor 
chap's  blind." 

"  And  ain't  you  blind  yourself  ? "  she  re 
plied  indignantly.  "  I've  niver  heard  you  ax 
no  speshil  grace  a-cos  o'  it." 

"  Maybe  I  hadn't  so  much  to  lose  as  him." 

"  Niver  you  tell  me  that  your  sight  ain't  as 
much  vally  as  his.  He  niver  used  his  eyes  to 
look  about  him  when  he  had  'em,  or  he  wudn't 
be  so  blind  as  he  is." 

"  Well,"  said  Joe,  "  I  reckon  he's  a  gintle- 
man,  and  ain't  bin  used  to  taking  notice." 

"Ay,  gintlemari,"  the   woman   answered; 


92  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"he's  got  the  vices  o'  one  any  way — wot  wi' 
wasting  good  victuals  and  swamping  the 
place ;  but  there,  gintleman  or  no,  he's  got  to 
learn  the  same  as  the  rest.  Life's  life  for  high 
and  low." 

"  Maybe,  mother,  but  then  steamed  sticks 
straighten  a  mint  better  taken  gradual  than 
fo'ced  all  to  once." 

"  You  was  always  a  bit  of  a  soft,  Joe,"  an 
swered  his  wife,  busying  herself  pouring  out 
a  cup  of  tea.  Placing  it  beside  him,  she 
fetched  another  cup  from  the  dresser,  filled  it 
with  tea — dark  in  colour,  bitter  in  taste — 
and,  adding  much  brown  sugar,  as  a  sign  of 
reconciliation,  she  climbed  up-stairs  and 
opened  the  door  of  Humphrey's  room.  The 
attic  presented  a  deplorable  spectacle :  water 
stood  in  pools  on  the  unplaned  boards,  and 
Humphrey,  after  giving  an  ineffectual  swab, 
had  thrown  the  cloth  out  of  the  window.  A 
hasty  glance  into  the  garden  revealed  it  to  the 
woman  lying  on  Joe's  freshly- washed  linen. 
Her  anger  kindled  anew  at  the  sight ;  but, 
turning,  she  saw  the  boy  seated  in  so  forlorn 
an  attitude,  and  with  so  forlorn  an  expression 
on  his  face,  that  though  it  went  to  her  heart 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  93 

not  to  speak  her  mind,  she  put  the  cup  of  tea 
down  on  the  chest  of  drawers  and  left  the 
room  in  silence. 

Coming  back  later  she  found  Humphrey 
had  rubbed  the  floor  dry  with  one  of  his 
shirts. 

"Bless  us,  did  you  iver  see  the  like  o' 
that ! "  she  exclaimed,  dropping  her  hands 
despairingly  on  to  her  apron.  "  A  four-years- 
old  chile  wud  have  known  better ;  but  there," 
she  continued,  stemming  back  her  indignation, 
"  let  the  floor  alone,  do,  and  drink  your  tea — 
it's  stone  cold  by  this  time." 

He  took  the  cup  from  her.  "  I  am  afraid 
I  am  an  awful  nuisance  to  you,"  he  said. 

"  You  ain't  niver  bin  taught  better,"  she 
answered.  "I  warrant  you've  bin  fine  and 
spoiled  in  your  time ;  but  then  the  Almighty 
seed  for  Hisself  that  you  needed  a  dressing, 
or  He  would  never  have  brought  'ee  to  the 
pass  He  has." 

Putting  the  cup  down,  the  boy  turned  away 
with  a  sort  of  half  sob,  and  the  woman's  face 
softened. 

"  Ah,  lad,  us  have  all  got  to  go  through 
wi'  it,"  she  said.  "  Life's  life." 


94  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"  I'm  an  awful  fool,"  he  said,  straightening 
his  back ;  "  it's  only  the  being  blind," 

"  Poor  lad !  "  said  the  woman,  "  poor  lad  ! " 

"Joe  is  a  fine  fellow,"  exclaimed  the  boy, 
enviously. 

"  He's  lamed,"  she  answered,  "  he's  larned." 

"It  seems  so  desperatety  hard,"  said  the 
boy,  "  anything  but  blindness — anything  in 
the  whole  world  but  that." 

"  Us  ain't  got  the  choosing  of  our  own  bur 
dens  ;  us  must  fit  'em  to  our  backs1  as  best  us 
can,"  she  answered. 

Turning  to  her  he  held  out  his  hands. 
"Will  you  have  patience  with  me  while  I 
learn  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  shall  mother  'ee  my  own  way,"  she 
answered. 

"  Mother  is  a  comforting  word,"  said  Hum 
phrey,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  you're  a  sof t-tongued  one,  you  are," 
she  answered. 

The  days  passed  slowly  away,  and  little  by 
little  Humphrey  found  what  Joe  called  "  the 
feel  o'  his  fingers."  Other  things  he  learned 
of  greater  value ;  unperceived  by  himself  his 
views  of  life  were  altering,  and  he  realised 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  95 

dimly  that  a  position  of  dependence  might 
still  be  compatible  with  self-respect.  Perhaps 
he  was  able  to  look  at  the  subject  with  less 
bias,  because  he  could  now  earn  sufficient  to 
support  himself;  and,  having  escaped  being 
dependent,  recognised  that  another  might  be 
justified  in  submitting  to  so  galling  a  position. 
One  afternoon  he  was  seated  at  work  beside 
his  blind  friend;  the  woman  was  ironing 
clothes,  and  the  bang,  bang  of  her  hot  iron 
on  the  clean  linen  resounded  monotonously 
through  the  small  kitchen.  After  a  while 
Joe,  who  had  let  his  work  fall  on  his  knees, 
turned  to  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  my  throat  has  been 
fine  and  sore  these  last  weeks ;  I  reckon  that 
one  of  your  poultices  might  do  it  a  good 
turn." 

"Now  that's  just  like  you,  Joe,  being  so 
long  a-mentioning  it,"  she  answered  in  a  tart 
voice. 

"Well,  I  thought  'twud  better  itself;  but 
'tis  rare  and  contrary,"  he  replied,  sipping 
some  cold  tea  from  a  pannikin  beside  him. 

The  woman  watched  him,  but  made  no 
remark. 


96  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  Why  not  get  a  doctor  to  look  at  it  ?  "  sug 
gested  Humphrey. 

"  Oh,  it  takes  a  pound  o'  money  to  git  a 
penn'orth  o'  sense  out  o'  them,"  Joe  replied, 
draining  the  pannikin  to  the  dregs.  His  wife 
rose  and  quietly  refilled  the  tin  mug  with  tea. 

"  I  have  a  friend  you  can  consult  for  noth" 
ing,  if  you  like,"  rejoined  Humphrey ;  "  and 
a  clever  fellow  too." 

"  Ay,"  said  the  woman,  "  do  'ee  go  up  and 
see  the  gintleman.  I  ain't  no  friend  to  sore 
throats." 

Joe  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  and 
sighed  rather  weariedly.  "Well,"  he  ex 
claimed  at  last,  "  maybe  I  will." 

On  the  examination  taking  place,  the  doc 
tor  refused  to  give  an  opinion,  asking  him  to 
come  back  again  on  the  following  day.  Re 
turning  home  after  the  second  consultation, 
his  wife  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  What  did  the  gintleman  say  ?  "  she  in 
quired  anxiously. 

"Why,  there  was  three  of  'em  there  this 
arternoon,"  he  answered,  smiling,  "and  it 
took  the  whole  busted  lot  jest  to  tell  me  I 
wasn't  on  no  account  to  smoke." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  97 

"  Didn't  they  say  no  more  than  that,  Joe  ?  " 

"  Not  a  blamed  word." 

"  Bless  us !  "  exclaimed  his  wife,  "  but 
doctors  git  their  laming  hard.  Where's  the 
lad  ? "  she  continued,  after  a  pause. 

"Oh,  he  stayed  on  there  to  dinner." 

"  Why,  he  had  his  dinner  at  twelve  o'clock 
before  he  went  away." 

u  Oh,"  said  Joe,  seating  himself  and  stretch 
ing  out  his  legs,  "  'tis  a  gintleman's  meal — • 
meat-tea,  with  the  tea  left  out." 

"Thank  the  Lord  I've  never  been  asked  to 
fathom  such  heathenish  meals  as  they,"  his 
wife  exclaimed  piously. 

Joe  dropped  his  head  between  his  hands. 
"I'm  powerful  thirsty,  mother,"  he  said. 
"  My  throat  burns  that  bad  I  reckon  some 
times  that  I  can  'most  hear  it  fizz." 

The  woman  turned  towards  the  fire.  "  The 
kettle's  jest  on  the  boil,"  she  answered ;  "  I'll 
make  yer  a  drop  o'  tea.  'Tis  a  queer  thing," 
she  added  after  a  pause,  "  that  jest  the  leav 
ing  off  o'  smoking  shud  cure  'ee ;  but  there,  I 
was  niver  no  friend  to  terbacca." 

When  the  doctors  had  departed,  Humphrey 
joined  his  friend  in  the  smoking-room.  He 

7 


98  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

had  been  one  of  the  doctors  at  the  hospital 
where  Humphrey  had  undergone  treatment, 
and  had  taken  a  liking  for  the  boy ;  but 
Humphrey  kept  apart  from  him,  confiding 
his  troubles  to  no  one. 

"  What  was  the  result  of  the  consultation?  " 
asked  Humphrey. 

The  doctor  rolled  a  cigarette  neatly  between 
his  fingers  before  answering.  "  The  man  has 
cancer  in  the  throat,"  he  replied  at  length. 

Humphrey's  face  contracted.  "  Is  the  case 
hopeless  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  Quite  ;  it  means " 

"What?" 

"  Loss  of  voice  first,  starvation  afterwards." 

The  boy  pushed  his  chair  violently  back. 
"  What  a  hell  of  suffering  this  world  is !  " 
he  exclaimed. 

The  doctor  made  no  comment. 

"  Did  you  tell  him  ? "  Humphrey  continued 
after  a  pause. 

"  No ;  I  thought  it  might  be  advisable  for 
you  to  break  the  truth  to  his  wife,  and  let 
her  tell  him." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  do  that"  protested  the 
boy  passionately. 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  99 

"  It  would  be  the  kinder  way  of  breaking 
the  truth  to  him." 

Humphrey  stumbled  up  from  his  chair, 
crossed  the  room,  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  his  friend.  "  How,  how,  how,"  he  ex 
claimed,  "could  I  tell  her  such  a  terrible 
truth  as  that  ? " 

"I  cannot  answer  you,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  My  lad,"  he  continued  after  a  moment, 
rising  and  laying  his  hand  dn  Humphrey's 
shoulder,  "  some  one  must  tell'  her." 

"  She  has  been  so  awfully  good  to  me," 
protested  the  boy  again. 

"Well,  and  isn't  that—?  eh? " 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  said  Hum 
phrey.  "Damn  it,  man,  I  see  what  you 
mean;  I'll— I'll  tell  her." 

The  next  afternoon  Joe  was  absent ;  his 
wife  sat  sewing  at  the  little  table  by  the 
window,  and  Humphrey,  putting  down  the 
umbrella  he  had  been  recovering,  came  and 
stood  beside  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  (he  had  taken  to  call 
ing  her  mother),  "  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

"  Well,  lad,"  she  answered,  "  say  on." 


100  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

A  great  knob  rose  in  his  throat.  "  It's 
about  Joe's  illness,"  he  said. 

She  dropped  her  work,  and  looking  up  at 
him,  "  Yer  ain't  going  to  tell  me  nothing  bad 
o'  it  ?  "  she  exclaimed  anxiously. 

He  knelt  down  and  put  his  arms  round 
her.  "  Oh,  mother  !  "  he  answered,  "  it  is  the 
old  terrible  thing,  life's  life." 

She  gave  a  little  abrupt,  cry.  "  He  ain't 
to  be  took  from  me ;  it  ain%that  ?  "  she  said, 
"  it  ain't  that  ?  " 

Humphrey  looked  at  her,  but  answered 
nothing  ;  she  turned  from  him  and  dropping 
her  head  on  the  table,  "  My  pore  Joe,"  she 
said,  "  my  pore  Joe."  After  a  while  she 
asked  suddenly,  "  What  illness  is  it  ? " 

Drawing  a  quick,  painful  breath,  Hum 
phrey  answered,  "  Cancer  in  the  throat." 

"Oh,  'tis  cruel,  cruel,"  she  cried,  "and  he 
with  such  a  throat  for  trills.  There  ain't  his 
ekal  for  singing  '  Banks  and  braes.' ' 

The  boy  made  no  answer. 

"  I  know  what  'tis,"  she  continued  ;  "  I've 
heard  tell  o'  it  before ;  twenty  years  he's  bin 
blind,  now  he's  to  be  dumb,  then  starved. 
Oh,  Joe,  my  pore  Joe,  the  Almighty  must 


LIFE   IS   LIF^ 

have  been  fair  mazed  wi'  the  joys  o'  heaven 
when  He  reckoned  such  suffering  nought 
compared  to  it."  She  dropped  her  head 
once  more  upon  the  table  and  sobbed.  At 
last  she  lifted  up  her  face,  the  rugged  lines 
on  it  a  little  softened. 

"  He'll  be  able  to  take  his  drop  o'  tea  to 
the  end,"  she  said.  "  Maybe  the  Almighty 
thought  on  that  when  He  made  him  look 
unkind  on  victuals." 

In  the  silence  that  ensued  the  distant  tap 
ping  of  Joe's  stick  on  the  pavement  became 
audible.  "There  he  comes,"  exclaimed  the 
woman,  "  there  he  comes."  Humphrey  put 
his  arms  round  her  and  gave  her  a  big,  boy 
ish  hug.  "Dear  mother,"  he  said,  "dear 
mother ; "  then  he  went  out  and  left  the 
husband  and  wife  alone. 

Joe  seemed  very  tired ;  he  sat  on  the  worn, 
shiny  chair,  the  palms  of  his  hands  upon  his 
knees.  The  woman  rose  and  poured  him  out 
a  cup  of  tea  from  the  little  brown  teapot  that 
always  stood  upon  the  hob. 

"  You've  bin  a  long  time,"  she  said.  "  Did 
you  buy  they  withies  ?  " 

"No,"  he  answered;    "they  was  touched 


102  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

wi'  the  rot,  so  I  went  on  as  far  as  the  Heads 
and  laid  down  on  the  grass  a  bit ;  'tis  a  long 
while  since  I've  heard  the  sound  o'  the  sea." 

"Yer  was  alles  fond  o'  the  sea  and  the 
grass,  Joe." 

"  Ther's  a  blamed  lot  o7  nater  in  'em,"  he 
answered;  " but  they  alles  sets  me  thinking 
o'  the  Old  Country.  I  reckons  us  won't  set 
eyes  on  the  Old  Country  again,  mother  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  You've  bin  a  good  wife  to  me,"  he  said. 

"  Nought  to  speak  of,"  she  answered,  her 
voice  breaking. 

"Ay,  but  you  have,"  he  said.  "I  was 
reckoning  to  myself  this  arternoon  'twas  a 
poor  day  when  I  put  the  strap  to  yer." 

"  It  hangs  on  the  nail  now,"  she  exclaimed, 
half  to  herself. 

"Ay,  and  let  it" 

"  I've  spoke  my  mind  to  the  rest  o'  'em, 
but  you  was  alles  my  master,  Joe,"  she  said. 

"  There  ain't  no  disputing  I've  layed  it  into 
'ee  at  times,"  he  answered,  with  a  half  smile. 

"  I've  slept  the  easier  for  it.  I've  known 
your  mind  when  maybe  I  shud  niver  have 
known  my  own." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  103 

"Well,  well,"  he  exclaimed,  "they  days  be 
done." 

She  turned  away,  and  taking  up  the  loaf 
began  cutting  the  bread.  "I've  nought  but 
a  bit  o'  dripping  for  'ee  to-day,"  she  said ; 
"  they  ain't  paid  me  for  the  washing  yet  along, 
and  I  was  niver  no  friend  to  debt." 

"  You're  right  there,  mother,"  he  answered ; 
"  and  I  likes  a  bit  o'  dripping  turn  about." 

"  There  have  bin  times  when  us  cudn't  git 
either,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  smiling  across  at  her — 
"  us  have  bin  fo'ced  to  fare  scanty  now  and 
agin ;  but  ther,  hard  times  haven't  hurt  us." 

"  You  was  alles  a  well-plucked  un,  Joe," 
she  said. 

"  Us  fared  and  fared  alike,  mother,  and  I 
reckon,  God  willing,  us  'ull  do  it  till  the 
end." 

"  Ay,  God  willing,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
broke. 

"  Wot's  come  to  'ee,  mother  ? " 

"  Joe,  Joe,"  she  answered,  putting  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  "  God  ain't  willing.  "Tis 
just  that;  'tis  just  that." 

"  Wot  makes  'ee   take  on  so  ?  "  he  asked 


104  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

anxiously.  "  Yer  ain't  kept  it  from  me  that 
you're  ill?" 

She  drew  him  close  to  her.  "  Oh,  Joe  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  "'tis  yerself  that  is  sicker 
than  you  reckon." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  putting  up  his 
hand  stroked  her  faded  hair :  the  tears  coursed 
down  her  red  freckled  face,  God  wot  she  was 
ugly  enough;  but  she  had  a  heart  to  love 
with,  and  what  greater  gift  has  He  given  to 
man  or  woman  yet? — what  greater,  though 
the  symbol  be  a  crown  of  Thorns,  a  Cross,  and 
the  steep  steps  of  Calvary  ? 

"  Ay,  mother,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  "  ain't 
us  alles  said  as  how  life  was  life  ? " 

"  Life's  life,"  she  answered ;  "  but  oh,  Joe, 
lad,  'tis  hard  to  live  it." 


CHAPTER    III 

The  grisly  disease  that  had  attacked  the 
blind  man  pursued  its  course  with  startling 
rapidity ;  and,  favoured  by  the  climate,  drove 
its  victim  along  the  road  to  death  at  a  right 
merry  pace,  so  that  he  had  reached  his  des 
tination  before  he  had  half  realised  the  direc. 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  105 

tion  in  which  he  had  been  hurried.  Joe  dead, 
his  former  customers  found  a  passable  make 
shift  in  Humphrey  ;  they  grumbled,  paid  less, 
but  gave  him  plenty  of  employment.  This 
was  all  that  he  needed  from  them,  caring 
little  for  their  grumbling,  for  his  thoughts 
were  full  of  other  matters.  Seated  on  the 
broken  doorstep,  repairing  the  ribs  of  some 
neighbour's  broken  gingham,  his  heart  would 
swell  with  homesickness,  and  a  terrible  long 
ing  for  the  people  he  had  known  and  loved  in 
childhood  take  possession  of  him.  Then  the 
umbrella  would  drop  from  his  hand,  and  his 
blind  eyes  fill  with  visions  of  his  English 
home;  the  crude  street  noises  around  him 
would  hush  themselves,  and  the  lop-lop  of  the 
river,  as  it  humped  its  way  over  brown  peb 
bles,  become  audible :  he  watched  it  wind 
through  the  Thursby  meadows  where  the  big 
elms  lolled  and  sunned  themselves,  past  the 
gorse-covered  hills,  and  the  shuffling  woods  in 
their  spring  coat  of  beech-green.  He  saw  again 
the  long  green  alleys  of  the  Chase,  played  in 
its  old- wo  rid  gardens,  where  old -world  flowers 
dozed  with  drooping  heads  as  if  dog-tired  of 
blooming.  Watching,  the  boy's  heart  would 


106  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

swell  with  homesickness,  and  lie  would  creep 
up-stairs  to  the  little  attic,  fling  himself  upon 
the  bed,  and  sob  like  the  fool  that  he  was. 
The  woman  marked  the  traces  of  tears  on  his 
face,  but  made  no  comment;  and  the  days 
crept  on,  each  much  as  the  other.  Humphrey 
had  bought  a  small  book  of  Devonshire  sto 
ries,  and  when  the  evenings  came  and  the 
woman  had  put  away  her  work,  she  would  sit 
upright  in  the  wooden  arm-chair  and  read  to 
him  from  the  pages  of  the  book,  monotonously 
and  with  much  labour,  and  he  would  sit  on 
the  floor  at  her  feet,  his  head  resting  against 
her  knee.  She  never  commented  on  the  stories. 
They  were  descriptive  of  rustic  life  in  Devon 
shire,  and  one  day  Humphrey  asked  for  her 
opinion  of  them. 

"  The  book  has  a  fine  cover  of  its  own,"  she 
said ;  "  but  there,  I  reckoned  when  you  laid 
out  your  money  on  such  things  you  wud  have 
liked  to  walk  in  higher  life.  I  ain't  come 
across  no  dook,  though  I've  read  each  page 
careful." 

"  Why  a  duke,  mother  ?  " 

"  There  ain't  nothing  scanty  about  a  dook," 
she  answered.  "  Set  him  where  you  will,  he 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  107 

makes  the  page  look  full.  I've  alles  held  it  a 
queer  thing  that,  thinking  of  dooks  as  I  do, 
the  Almighty  has  never  seen  fit  to  throw  us 
together;  but  ther,  that's  life  all  over,  the 
man  as  admires  'ee  most  is  fate  sure  to  miss 
'ee  by  the  turn  of  a  street." 

Into  Humphrey's  face  there  came  a  mingled 
expression  of  amused,  delighted  affection.  He 
rose  from  his  chair  and  put  his  arms  round 
the  old  woman. 

"  You  are  worth  all  the  dukes  and  duch 
esses  put  together,"  he  said.  "  If  ever  I 
could  write  a  book,  it  would  be  about 
you." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  soft-tongued  one,  you  are," 
she  answered,  smiling.  He  lifted  her  crinkled 
red  hand  and  put  it  tenderly  to  his  lips. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  "you  suspect  flattery 
in  everything." 

"  Bless  the  boy,"  she  exclaimed,  "  you've 
tored  the  pocket  o'  your  coat  'most  clean  out, 
so  jest  you  take  it  off  and  I'll  put  a  stitch  in 
it  at  once.  "Why,"  she  continued  a  moment 
later,  "  if  you  ain't  got  three  letters  from  the 
Old  Country  in  yer  pocket,  and  niver  so  much 
as  broke  the  seal  o'  one  o'  them !  " 


108  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

Humphrey  flushed  heavily,  but  made  no 
answer. 

"Lad, "said  the  old  woman,  in  a  serious 
voice,  "  I  much  misdoubt  if  you  have  acted 
fair  to  them  that  loves  yer." 

"  I  couldn't  read  the  letters  myself,  and  I 
couldn't  endure  the  thought  of  an  outsider 
reading  them,"  protested  Humphrey. 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  larn  hard, 
lad,"  she  said. 

"  Mother,  you  read  them,"  he  answered  at 
last. 

Searching  in  her  work-basket,  she  found 
a  second  pair  of  spectacles ;  she  cleaned  the 
glasses  carefully,  stopping  from  time  to  time 
to  glance  at  the  boy's  face. 

"  I  was  niver  no  f athomer  o'  handwriting," 
she  said. 

He  knelt  down  in  front  of  her,  and  took 
her  hands  in  his  trembling  ones. 

"  Love  me  a  little  first,"  he  pleaded. 

Parting  the  hair  on  his  forehead,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  him.  "  You're  a  terrible  chile  for 
liking  to  be  mothered,"  she  answered,  smiling. 
"  I  reckon  you  laid  fine  and  easy  as  a  baby." 

"  I  never  told  you  anything  about  my  life 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  109 

before  we  met,"  lie  said ;  "  and  you  have  been 
very  good  in  not  asking." 

"  I  was  niver  no  friend  o'  questions,"  she 
answered. 

He  was  silent  a  while,  and  buried  his  face 
in  her  lap,  she  rubbing  her  hand  softly 
through  his  hair.  "  I  was  educated  by  a 
gentleman  under  the  impression  that  I  was 
his  grandson,"  he  exclaimed  at  last,  and 
stopped  dead. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  "  I  alles  knowed  you  was 
a  gintleman  from  the  first." 

"  Why,  mother,"  he  answered,  lifting  up 
his  head  and  smiling  at  her,  "  that  is  hardly 
a  compliment, — you  remember  you  thought 
I  had  just  been  released  from  jail." 

"  I  was  niver  no  friend  to  spoiling  at 
sight,"  she  said. 

"Well,  as  things  turned  out,"  Humphrey 
continued,  "  instead  of  being  his  son's  child, 

I  proved  to  be  the  child  of "  he  stopped 

a  second  time,  sinking  his  face  in  her  lap. 
She  stroked  his  hair. 

"  Best  leave  the  story  alone,  lad,"  she 
said ;  "  there  ain't  no  call  for  nothing  so 
long-winded." 


110  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

"  Ah,  it  is  simple  enough,"  replied  Hum 
phrey,  simulating  ease.  "  Instead  of  being 
the  son  of  the  man  every  one  supposed,  I 
turned  out  to  be  the  son  of  his  servant." 

"  Ah !  "  exclaimed  the  woman,  "  that's  life 
all  over." 

"  I  was  a  coward,"  Humphrey  continued 
bitterly ;  "  I  wouldn't  face  things  out.  I 
realised  after  a  fashion  that  Atter's  story 
was  true,  but  I  wouldn't  face  it.  I  had  just 
been  blinded." 

"  How  did  that  come  on  you,  lad  ? "  the 
woman  interposed. 

"  An  accident,"  said  Humphrey,  turning 
away. 

"  Poor  lad,  poor  lad." 

"  Well,  I  wouldn't  face  things,"  Humphrey 
repeated.  "  I  had  only  one  idea,  and  that 
was  to  get  away  from  the  man  Atter,  my 
father,  you  understand;  then  he  was  ar 
rested  for — manslaughter,  and  I  was  free. 
At  Bourke  the  doctors  told  me  that  my 
blindness  would  be  permanent,  but  I  didn't 
believe  them,  and  went  on  to  Sydney ;  the 
doctors  there  said  the  same  thing,  but  I 
couldn't  take  it  in  somehow,  and  I  tried  the 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  111 

Melbourne  and  Adelaide  oculists,  and  their 
opinion  coincided  with  the  others.  A  big 
boom  was  on  in  Broken  Hills  when  I  reached 
Adelaide;  every  other  man  one  met  had 
turned  stockbroker,  and  to  get  away  from 
the  misery  of  things  I  began  speculating. 
Just  then  my  grandfather — you  understand 
whom  I  mean — wired  me  out  some  money — 
five  thousand  pounds.  Of  course  he  was  still 
under  the  impression  that  I  was  his  grandson. 
I  hadn't  told  him ;  I  hadn't  faced  things  out. 
I  knew  I  hadn't  any  right  to  the  money,  but 
I  took  it.  I  felt  a  Thursby  somehow ;  it 
sounds  foolish  to  say  so,  but  I  felt  a  Thursby ; 
I  felt  a  Thursby  every  bit  of  me.  Well — I 
speculated  with  the  money  and — lost  it." 

He  stopped  abruptly  and  sank  his  face  in 
the  woman's  lap. 

"  Poor  lad,"  she  said,  stroking  his  hair, 
"  poor  lad." 

"  It's  a  shabby  story,  eh,  mother  ?  "  he  ex 
claimed  drearily. 

"  Poor  lad,"  repeated  the  old  woman,  "  poor 
lad,  and  you  such  a  gintleman  in  spite  of  it ; 
but  there,  the  Almighty  knows  who  can  stand 
a  dressing  and  who  can't." 


112  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"  I  wrote  to  my  grandfather,  I  mean — you 
understand — and  owned  up,  and  these  letters 
are  in  answer  to  mine." 

"  They'll  be  comfortsome,  no  doubt,"  said 
the  woman. 

"  If  only  I  had  acted  straight,  had  faced  it 
from  the  first, — if  only  I  hadn't  taken  the 
money " 

But  it  was  contrary  to  the  woman's  nature 
to  see  faults  in  those  she  loved  when  the  hand 
of  fate  was  heavy  upon  them. 

"  I  was  niver  no  friend  to  over  remorse," 
she  said,  "  and  now  'twud  be  as  well  to  read 
them  letters." 

There  was  silence  in  the  small  kitchen 
while  the  woman  held  each  letter  in  turn 
up  to  the  lamp,  and  laboriously  re-read  the 
address. 

"  I'll  take  'em  according  to  date,"  she  re 
marked  at  last,  opening  carefully  one  of  the 
envelopes,  and  as  carefully  extracting  the  en 
closed  letter.  "  Bless  us  !  "  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  smoothed  the  first  page  out  on  the  table, 
"  but  'tis  fine  and  controlled,  not  more  than 
three  lines  from  the  first  word  to  the  last.  I 
might  have  written  it  myself." 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  113 

"Then  it's  from  my  grandfather,"  said 
Humphrey ;  "  he  detests  letter- writing." 

"'Tis  a  fine  eddicated  hand,"  exclaimed 
the  old  woman  admiringly — "  'twud  most 
take  a  gintleman  himself  to  read  it;  but 
there,  the  address  is  printed  on  top  o'  the 
page." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  about  the  address," 
said  Humphrey,  consumed  with  impatience. 
"  How  does  it  begin  ?  " 

"  '  My  dear  boy,' "  she  read,  and  stopped ; 
he  leant  his  head  back  against  her  knee  and 
smiled,  he  could  almost  hear  the  Squire 
speaking. 

"  Well ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  she  recom 
menced. 

" '  Did  I  not  always  tell  you  you  were  a 
young  fool  ? ' "  she  read  slowly,  and  stopped 
again. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  interpolated,  "  a  gintleman  will 
have  his  jokes." 

"  Go  on,"  commanded  the  boy,  and  she 
read  the  letter  steadily  on  to  the  end. 

" '  Come  home  at  once,  and  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  telling  you  so  in  person.  En- 


114  LIFE  IS  LIFE 

closed  find  a  draft  for  a  hundred  pounds. — 
Yours  affectionately,        JOHN  THUKSBY.'  ': 

"  There,"  exclaimed  the  woman,  with  genu 
ine  admiration,  "  there  ain't  no  mistaking  a 
gintleman  when  you  meet  him."  But  Hum 
phrey  was  fighting  with  a  lump  in  his  throat, 
and  made  no  answer.  She  folded  the  letter 
and  draft  carefully  together,  and  laid  them 
on  the  little  table.  "  Just  as  I've  said  many 
a  time,"  she  continued,  running  her  fingers 
through  the  boy's  hair  with  a  slow  mechani 
cal  movement,  "the  fewer  the  words,  the 
fuller  the  sense ;  that's  what  comes  o'  bein' 
eddicated.  Eddication,  mark  me,  is  the 
shortest  way  there ;  not  that  I  hold  wi' 
things  as  they  are  nowadays,  when  every  frog 
busts  hisself  out  trying  to  be  took  for  a  bull : 
there's  more  in  eddication  than  book-larning, 
whativer  the  State  may  say  to  the  contrary. 
But  there,  I  ain't  no  speshil  friend  to  the 
State, — as  I've  said  to  Joe  many  a  time,  the 
State  is  taking  a  deal  more  on  itself  than  be 
comes  it ;  'twas  all  very  well  in  the  old  days, 
when  it  was  content  wi'  the  making  o'  roads 
and  suchlike,  but  when  it  takes  into  its  head 


LIFE  IS   LIFE  115 

that  the  pudding  in  my  pot  is  the  same  size 
as  my  neighbour's,  I  thank  it  to  let  well 
alone.  It  wasn't  long  after  Joe  was  took  ill 
that  I  heard  that  radical  jumbuck  William 
Harness  a-telling  him,  'Us  ain't  got  no 
masters  now,'  says  he,  '  the  State  is  master 
now.'  '  An'  a  poor  exchange,'  I  sed ;  '  if  I 
am  to  have  a  master,  let  him  be  o'  flesh  and 
blood  the  same  as  meself.'  i  Women  ain't 
got  no  right  understanding  in  such  matters/ 
ses  he.  'No,  nor  men  either,  if  the  laws  be 
a  token,'  ses  I ;  '  why,  if  I  had  my  will,  I'd 
disinf ranchify  the  whole  lot  o'  ye  ! '  t  You're 
jealous  'cos  you  ain't  got  no  vote  yirself, 
Missus,'  ses  he.  '  Women  have  their  dues 
the  same  as  the  rest,'  sed  I,  i  tho'  maybe 
their  first  right  should  be  to  stand  aside 
and  hold  their  tongue.'  '  I'm  with  'ee  there, 
Missus,'  ses  he.  Well,  well,"  she  added, 
folding  up  her  spectacles,  and  putting  them 
in  the  work-basket,  "  if  ther  wasn't  no  laws, 
ther  'ud  be  a  sight  more  unemployed  :  wot 
wi'  the  making  o'  'em  and  setting  o'  'ein  in 
acting  they  gives  a  deal  o'  amusement  to  the 
men ;  and,  bless  'ee,  a  man  likes  his  bit  o' 
play  the  same  as  a  chile.  Many's  the  time 


116  LIFE   IS   LIFE 

I've  said  to  Joe,  i  Take  a  man  to  pieces  and 
you'll  find  he's  a  chile  at  heart.' "  Humphrey 
smiled,  and  gained  possession  of  one  of  her 
hands. 

"  When  will  you  be  thinking  of  going  back 
along  home  ?  "  she  asked. 

His  face  contracted.  "  There  are  lots  of 
reasons  why  I  can't  go,  mother,"  he  said. 
"Don't  you  see  I've  failed  in  everything." 

"  You're  wonderful  frivolous  at  times,  lad," 
she  answered.  "  And  as  to  failing,  ther's  two 
kinds  of  failing,  I  reckon:  the  failing  to  do 
what  us  have  marked  out  for  ourselves,  and 
the  failing  to  do  what  the  Almighty  has  laid 
clown  for  us  ;  many's  the  time  in  missing  the 
first  us  follers  the  last,  unconscious." 

"  I  like  my  own  programme  best,  notwith 
standing,"  replied  Humphrey. 

"Ah,  may  be,"  she  answered.  "I  ain't  niver 
yet  found  the  pusson  who  took  to  life  as  'tis." 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  after  a  long  silence,  "  if 
I  went  home,  would  you  come  with  me  ?  " 

"  Faith,  no,  lad,"  she  answered,  "  I've  given 
up  wearying  for  the  Old  Country ;  after  all, 
it  ain't  the  place  but  the  people  that  makes 
home." 


LIFE  IS  LIFE  117 

"But  you  haven't  many  friends  here,  have 
you  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

"  I  wasn't  a-talking  o'  the  push,1  lad ;  'twas 
Joe  I  was  reckoning  on." 

"  You  would  be  so  lonely  if  I  left  you, 
even  for  a  time." 

The  woman  looked  down  on  his  upturned 
face,  her  dim  eyes  dimmer  with  tears. 

"  I  won't  deny  it's  pleasant  for  me  to  see 
you  about,"  she  said,  "but  I  shan't  miss  'ee 
the  same  as  you  think.  I  niver  wanted  no 
other  company  than  Joe's  since  the  first  day 
he  corned  courting,  and  us  7ull  kind  o'  pine 
one  for  t'other  till  the  same  sod  covers  us 
both." 

Humphrey  put  his  arms  round  her.  "I 
couldn't  leave  you,  mother,  I  love  you  so," 
he  exclaimed. 

"  Nay,  nay,  lad,"  she  answered  indignantly, 
"  there's  the  right  and  the  wrong  o'  things, 
and  you've  bin  hungering  after  your  own 
folk  this  long  while." 

He  did  not  answer. 

She  stooped  and  retied  his  neckerchief. 
"  I'd  liefer  that  you  went,"  she  said. 

'The  crowd,  outsiders. 


118  LIFE  IS   LIFE 

"Mother?" 

"  Ay,  true ;  you're  a  troublesome  chile,  and 
need  a  deal  o'  washing  and  mending.  Why, 
'twas  only  this  morning  that  you  put  on  a 
clean  shirt,  and  as  sure  as  fate  you'll  be 
hunting  for  another  to-morrow." 

"  I've  been  a  terrible  trouble  to  you." 

"  You  ain't  spared  me,  and  I'm  getting  up 
along  in  years." 

"  Mother,  mother,  what  a  thoughtless  brute 
I've  been !  " 

"  Well,  go  right  along  home  then ;  outsid 
ers  will  do  your  washing,"  her  face  contract 
ing  as  she  spoke.  "I  much  misdoubt, 
though,"  she  added,  "  if  they'll  have  the 
same  feel  for  starch." 

He  put  up  his  hands  and  felt  her  face. 
"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  you're  crying  !  " 

"None  such  thing,"  she  replied  indig 
nantly. 

"  If  I  go  home,  I  shall  come  back  again  to 
you — I  shall,  I  swear  it." 

"Now  jest  you  leave  swearing  alone;  I 
ain't  no  friend  to  rash  promises." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  care  for  me  after  all," 
he  said,  in  a  hurt  voice. 


LIFE   IS   LIFE  119 

"  You  are  terrible  much  a  chile,  lad,"  she 
answered,  bending  and  kissing  him. 

"  If  I  leave  you,  tell  me  something  better 
than  4  life's  life,' "  he  said,  drawing  her  face 
close  to  his  own. 

"  Ah,  lad,"  she  answered,  "  when  a  thing  is, 
what  does  us  gain  by  saying  it  isn't  ? " 

"But  it's  a  dreary  philosophy,"  he  pro 
tested. 

"  What  do  the  ills  of  life  matter  if  us  faces 
'em  courageous  ?  "  she  answered ;  but  her  old, 
tired  voice  trembled,  for  of  life  and  life's  ills 
she  was  somewhat  weary. 

Again  he  drew  her  face  down  towards  his 
own. 

"Mother,"  he  asked,  "did  you  say  life's 
life  when  first  you  knew  Joe  loved  you  ? " 

"  Ay,  on  my  knees  I  said  it." 

"  God  bless  you  for  having  lived  ! "  cried 
the  boy. 

"Oh,  lad,  lad,"  she  answered,  "I  was 
never  for  denying  the  Almighty  was  the 
Almighty." 


THE  FAILURE  OF  FLIPPERTY 


THE  FAILUEE  OF  FLIPPERTY 

PART  I 

THE  great  Australian  liner  steamed  west, 
and  Port  Melbourne  lay  a  bluer  streak 
on  a  blue  horizon.  Passengers  were  grouped 
about  the  deck ;  and  at  the  stern  of  the  vessel, 
hidden  from  the  others  by  a  cabin,  stood  two 
children,  boys.  It  was  evident  that  they  now 
met  for  the  first  time  :  they  looked  at  one 
another  with  shy  hesitant  interest;  both 
wanted  to  be  friends  ;  each  wished  the  other 
to  make  the  first  advance.  In  appearance 
they  were  strangely  unlike :  the  one  was 
short,  broad,  with  red  hair  and  ears  agape ; 
the  other,  who  looked  about  eleven,  was 
slim,  his  face  small  and  finely  drawn,  with 
a  straight,  determined  little  nose,  the  brow 
and  eyes  giving  an  impression  of  width  and 
imagination. 

The  red-headed  boy  edged  nearer.     "  My 

123 


124  THE   FAILURE   OF  FLIPPERTY 

name  is  Buster,"  he  said,  with  affected  in 
difference  ;  "  what's  yours  ? " 

"  Flipperty,"  the  other  answered,  "  an'  I've 
got  an  anchor  and  two  cricket-bats  tattooed 
on  my  left  arm  ;  what  have  you  got  \  " 

Buster's  arm  did  not  happen  to  be  tattooed, 
so  he  changed  the  conversation.  "  Compare 
muscles,"  he  said. 

Flipperty  bent  a  little  thin  arm  back  to 
his  shoulder  with  a  great  deal  of  action. 

"  Putty,"  commented  Buster ;  "  feel  mine." 

"  You  are  hard,"  his  companion  admitted. 

"  Practised  in  the  gym  every  day ;  did  you 
have  a  good  gym  in  your  school  ?  " 

"  I  never  went  to  school,"  Flipperty  an 
swered,  looking  ashamed ;  but  brightening, 
"  Philip  did  :  Philip's  splendid, — why,  he 
could  throw  a  cricket-ball  farther  than  any 
fellow  in  the  college.  I'm  good  at  the  long 
jump." 

"Who's  Philip?" 

"  My  brother ;  he  is  at  the  Teetulpa  gold- 
fields  ;  I'm  going  to  help  him  to  dig  for 
gold." 

"  You  dig  for  gold !  "  Buster  interrupted 
with  scorn ;  "  why,  you  look  as  if  you  had 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  125 

sat  on  a  high  chair  all  your  life  and  fed  the 
poor  out  of  a  long  spoon." 

"  Well,  I  just  didn't,  so  there." 

"  Now,  upon  your  solemn  Dick,  did  you 
never  in  all  your  life  give  a  thing  to  the  poor? " 

"Only  once,  so  there,"  he  answered,  de 
fiantly. 

"  What  did  you  give  them  ?  " 

"Oh,  things." 

"What  things?" 

"  Shan't  say." 

"  You're  afraid." 

"  I'm  not." 

"  Well,  say." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Flipperty's  face  and 
then  receded,  leaving  it  quite  white.  "  It 
was  a  flannel  petticoat,"  he  answered. 

"  Cracky,  do  you  wear  flannel  petticoats  ?  " 
Buster  exclaimed,  too  astonished  for  further 
comment.  After  a  moment  he  added,  "  I 
always  thought  there  was  something  odd 
about  the  look  of  you ;  I'll  tell  my  brother, 
—won't  he  laugh  !  " 

Flipperty  caught  Buster  by  the  arm  and 
drew  him  nearer.  "  Will  you  keep  a  secret 
if  I  tell  you  something  ?  "  he  whispered. 


126  THE   FAILUHE   OF   FLIPPERTY 

"  Fire  away ;   don't  take  your  tongue  for 
a  sugar-plum  and  swallow  it." 
"Promise?" 
"  Solemn  Dick" 
"  Well,  then,  I'm  a  girl." 
"A  girl!" 
"Yes." 
"Cracky!" 

"  Do  you  think  it  very  wrong  ?  " 
"What,  to  be  a  girl?" 
"  No  ;  to  pretend  to  be  a  boy  ?  " 
"The  police  will  nab  you  as  sure  as  an 

egg-" 

"Philip  won't  let  them;  I'm  not  afraid." 

"  They  will  dress  you  in  yellow  and  black 
like  a  wasp,  and  paint  you  all  over  arrows — 
solemn  Dick.  I've  seen  pictures  of  thieves 
in  a  book." 

"  I'm  not  a  thief,"  indignantly. 

"  What  are  you,  then  ?  " 

"I'm  just  a  girl,  who  hates  being  a  girl 
because  girls  are  stupid  cooped-up  things ;  so 
I  ran  away  from  home,  and  now  I'm  a  boy, 
and  I  will  never  be  a  girl  again ;  so  there." 

"  You  a  boy  !  why,  you  haven't  any  more 
muscle  than  a  cat." 


THE  FAILUKE  OF  FLIPPEKTY      127 

Flipperty  appeared  not  to  liear  this  com 
ment. 

"  Philip,"  she  said,  "  is  six  feet  high ;  I 
shall  grow  like  him  some  day." 

"  Pooh,"  Buster  answered,  contemptuously, 
"  you'll  never  reach  four  feet  on  tiptoe  ; 
you're  small  all  over, — I  daresay  you're  de 
formed." 

Flipperty  changed  the  conversation. 
"  Philip,"  she  said,  "  can  bowl  first  -  rate 
yorkers." 

"  Does  he  know  you're  coming  ?  "  Buster 
asked. 

"Yes;  I  wrote  and  told  him." 

"  Supposing  he  doesn't  get  the  letter  ?  " 

A  curious  scared  expression  crossed  Flip- 
perty's  face.  "  He  will  get  the  letter,"  she 
answered,  brusquely. 

"  Supposing  he  doesn't  ?  " 

"  I  shan't  suppose  anything  of  the  kind, 
so  there." 

u  Letters  like  that  always  go  wrong," 
Buster  declared  with  emphasis. 

Flipperty 's  eyes  filled  with  angry  tears. 
"  I  hate  you,"  she  said,  passionately,  "  you 
red-headed,  mean-minded,  supposing  thing." 


128  THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY 

Her  vehemence  seemed  to  surprise  Buster. 
He  looked  at  her  a  moment  in  silence,  then 
he  took  a  large  red  apple  from  his  pocket. 
"  You  may  have  two  bites,"  he  said,  "  as 
large  as  you  can  make  them." 

A  big  tear  splashed  down  over  Flipperty's 
face  on  to  the  deck.  She  covered  the  spot 
with  her  foot  impatiently. 

"The  apple  is  very  red,"  Buster  remarked. 
"  Bite  just  there,"  he  added,  indicating  the 
desired  spot  with  a  short  dirty  finger. 

Flipperty  took  a  small  sobby  bite. 

"  You  may  eat  half,"  Buster  said,  "  if  you 
promise  solemn  Dick  not  to  go  over  your  side 
of  the  core.  Come  into  my  cabin  and  I'll 
show  you  things,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause. 

"  There,"  he  said,  a  few  minutes  later,  tak 
ing  an  old  pistol  from  his  trunk,  "  what  do 
you  think  of  that  ? — it's  real.  I  expect  it 
has  killed  heaps  of  people ;  blew  their  brains 
out  on  the  floor — burglars,  you  know." 

"  Will  it  fire  off?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied  sadly,  "  it's  broken ;  but 
you  can  pull  the  trigger.  I  tell  you  what," 
he  added,  drawing  in  his  breath,  "  supposing 
I  lend  it  to  you — only  supposing,  you  know." 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  129 

"  Buster,  how  good  you  are  !  but  I  don't 
think  I  shall  need  it." 

His  face  brightened  ;  he  continued  to  press 
the  pistol  on  her. 

"  You  will  be  glad  of  it,"  he  said,  "  even  if 
it  doesn't  go  off — sleeping  at  night  with  a 
nugget  under  your  head  and  murder  all 
around.  Why,  Flipperty,  I  daresay  you  will 
have  to  kill  a  man  yourself." 

"No,"  she  answered  with  decision;  "I 
shall  let  him  off.  But  come  and  look  at  the 
sea,  and  think  of  sharks." 

"Yes,"  said  Buster.  "I  wish  some  one 
would  tumble  in,  don't  you?  only  a  baby, 
you  know,  or  the  boatswain — the  cross  one 
with  the  swivel  eye." 

"  We'd  save  them,"  cried  Flipperty,  flush 
ing  ;  "  and  nearly  get  drowned  ourselves,  and 
the  boatswain  would  entreat  us  to  ask  ques 
tions  ever  afterwards." 

"Yes,"  chimed  Buster;  "and  the  captain 
would  let  us  steer  the  ship,  and  beg  us  to  eat 
more  at  dessert." 

Then  they  both  relapsed  into  silence,  and 
watched  the  foam  flung  back  by  the  churning 

of  the  gigantic  screw. 
9 


130  THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPEETY 

"  Flipperty,"  said  Buster,  breaking  the 
silence,  "  you  mustn't  cry  when  we  say  good 
bye  to-morrow,  or  kiss  or  anything." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Promise,  solemn  Dick,"  he  said. 

"  I  never,  never  cry,  so  there,"  she  an 
swered,  with  an  impatient  little  stamp  of 
her  foot ;  "  and,  Buster,  if  you  will  tell  me 
something  very  manly,  I'll  say  it." 

"  Well,"  he  replied,  after  a  pause,  "  you'd 
better  say  'Sola.'" 

"SoJa?" 

«  Yes." 

"  It  sounds  rather  empty,"  she  objected. 

"  That's  being  a  man,"  he  answered. 

But  Flipperty  did  not  look  comforted. 
"  It  will  be  very  nice  seeing  Philip  to-mor 
row,"  she  said.  "  No  one  in  the  whole,  whole 
world  is  as  good  as  Philip." 

"  If  he  doesn't  come  will  you  go  to  Tee- 
tulpa  to  find  him  ?  "  Buster  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  You'll    lose    yourself,    as    sure    as    an 

egg-" 

"  No,"  she  said  with  decision ;    "  I   shall 

ask  questions." 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  131 

"  Supposing  your  people  find  you  and  drag 
you  home  ? " 

"  IVe  only  a  stepfather,  and  he  thinks  I'm 
with  a  horrid  smooth-haired  girl,  who  likes 
sewing  and  two-and-two  walks  at  school." 

"  It  will  cost  heaps  and  heaps  to  get  to 
Teetulpa." 

"  I  know,"  she  answered.  "  IVe  saved  all 
my  pennies  ever  since  Philip  went  away,  and 
my  uncle  gave  me  ten  pounds  on  my  birth 
day  to  buy  a  pony,  and  Philip  gave  me  a 
whole  sovereign  when  he  said  good-bye." 

"  I  wonder  what  Philip  will  say  when  he 
sees  you  ? " 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  He  will  say, 
1  Flipperty,  it  wrould  have  been  braver  to 
have  stayed  at  home.'  I  knew  that  all  along. 
I  tried  and  tried,  because  I  did  want  to  oe 
brave  and  grow  like  Philip,  only  somehow  I 
never  can  be  brave  when  he's  not  there. 
Philip  is  quite  different  from  you  and  me. 
He  doesn't  think  much  of  big  grand  deeds, 
like  the  Crusades  and  that;  he  says  that 
small,  dull,  stay-at-horne  things  are  harder 
to  do,  and  ever,  ever  so  much  nobler.  Why, 
he  even  thinks  learning  to  sew  noble  if  you 


132  THE   FAILURE  OF   FLIPPERTY 

don't  like  it :  of  course  it  isn't  noble  for  the 
smooth-haired  girl." 

But  Buster  was  not  interested.  "  Let  us 
steal  dessert  from  the  steward,"  he  said. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  steamer  an 
chored  opposite  Glenelg,  and  the  children 
watched  the  approaching  tender  that  was  to 
bring  Philip — but  he  was  not  on  board  her. 

"  Philip  hasn't  come,"  Flipperty  exclaimed. 

"  No  more  he  has,"  echoed  Buster ;  "  but 
perhaps  he's  found  a  nugget  and  is  afraid  to 
leave  it." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  sadly;  "that  must 
belt." 

The  tender  bell  rang,  and  the  passengers 
who  wished  to  go  on  shore  scrambled  down 
the  long  companion-ladder. 

"  You  must  go  now,"  Buster  said. 

The  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  she 
clung  to  his  arm. 

"  Don't  cry,"  he  said.  "  See,"  and  he  pro 
duced  a  large  nobby  green  apple  from  his 
pocket ;  "  how  much  do  you  bet  that  I  can't 
get  this  apple  into  my  mouth  at  one  go  ?  " 

She  was  put  into  the  tender :  looking  up 
at  the  great  vessel  to  say  good-bye  to  Buster, 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPEKTiT  133 

the  "So-la"  died  on  her  lips.  The  boy's 
face  was  a  dull  purple  hue,  his  mouth  wide 
open,  and  tightly  wedged  inside  was  the 
nobby  apple :  a  compassionate  passenger 
led  him  away,  and  Flipperty  saw  Buster 
no  more. 


PART   II 

THE  Teetulpa  express  steamed  out  of  the 
Adelaide  station  :  in  the  corner  of  one  of 
the  carriages  sat  Flipperty.  The  other 
passengers  were  men :  they  took  the  cush 
ions  off  the  seats,  improvised  a  table,  and  be 
gan  playing  cards.  Gradually  the  carriage 
filled  with  smoke,  and  Flipperty  fell  asleep. 
Every  now  and  again  the  train  would  stop 
at  a  station,  a  passenger  scramble  across  her 
toes,  and  she  would  wake  and  stare  drearily 
out  through  the  smoke-blurred  windows. 
Early  the  next  morning  the  train  reached 
the  terminus  :  some  roughly-built  coaches 
on  great  leather  springs  stood  outside  the 
station,  waiting  to  take  the  passengers  to 
the  gold-fields.  Flipperty  climbed  on  the 
box  of  one  of  the  coaches :  the  other  pas 
sengers  crowded  on  anywhere — some  sat  on 
the  roof  with  their  legs  dangling  over  the 
side.  They  were  a  curious  mixture  of  types 

134 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  135 

— swagmen,  shop-boys,  gentlemen,  larrikins, 
and  the  bond-fide  digger.  They  smoked, 
swore,  spat — spat,  swore,  smoked. 

The  coach  rolled  heavily  over  the  great  red 
sand  plain — a  plain  that  stretches  its  weary 
length  through  hundreds  of  miles  of  Central 
Australia.  Here  and  there  were  patches  of 
blue  or  salt  bush,  and  a  line  of  bare-breasted 
gum-trees  marked  the  course  of  the  creek,  but 
of  water  there  was  none :  the  bones  of  dead 
bullocks  gaped  wide  against  the  plain,  or  an 
appalling  stench  and  a  flock  of  crows  marked 
the  spot  where  some  animal  had  lately  died  of 
thirst  and  over-work. 

A  man  sitting  next  to  Flipperty  eyed  her 
curiously.  He  was  spare,  lean,  long-legged, 
and  dressed  in  a  flannel  shirt  and  old  pair  of 
moleskins,  with  a  short,  black,  clay  pipe  stuck 
in  the  band  of  his  wide-brimmed  hat. 

"  Only  got  to  pinch  his  nose  for  the  milk  to 
run  out,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  companions. 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  this  sally. 

"  Was  born  on  the  way  up,"  exclaimed  a 
loose-lipped,  red-eyed  larrikin.  "  How  old 
may  yer  be,  you  blanked  little  new  chum?" 
lie  added,  turning  to  Flipperty. 


136  THE   FAILURE    OF   FLIPPEKTY 

"  Eleven,"  she  answered. 

"  Why,  the  damned  little  pup  is  out  on  the 
spree,"  said  the  long-legged  digger,  laughing. 
"  Well,  I  ran  away  from  home  myself  when  I 
wasn't  much  higher  than  a  big-sized  cigar :  a 
boy  ain't  the  worse  for  a  bit  of  spunk.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  when  you  reach  Teetulpa, 
little  'un?" 

"  Philip  and  I  are  going  to  dig  for  gold," 
she  replied.  "Philip  is  my  brother;  he's 
very  big — bigger  than  you.  Buster  thinks 
that  Philip  has  found  a  nugget  already; 
that's  why  he  didn't  meet  me.  You  see  he 
would  have  to  defend  the  nugget." 

There  was  another  roar  of  laughter,  and 
Flipperty  blushed  painfully. 

"  Nuggets  ain't  so  easy  found,  youngster," 
the  long-legged  digger  answered.  "  Fever 
terrible  bad  at  the  diggin's,  I  hear,"  he  said, 
turning  to  his  companions.  "  See  a  man  alive 
and  hearty  one  morning ;  the  next  week  yer 
go  into  his  tent,  and  there  he  is  lying  with  his 
face  as  black  as  my  hat." 

"Why  black?  "  Flipperty  asked. 

"  Flies,"  he  answered,  shortly. 

At  this  moment  the  conductor  came  round 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  137 

to  collect  the  fares;  tlie  red-eyed  larrikin 
declared  that  "  he  hadn't  a  blanked  cent." 

But  the  conductor,  who  was  a  muscular 
young  fellow,  had  his  own  especial  way  of 
treating  impecunious  passengers. 

"  Slack  a  bit,  Bill,"  he  called  to  the  driver. 

The  horses  fell  into  a  slower  trot;  there 
was  a  short  struggle,  a  volley  of  oaths,  and 
the  red-eyed  larrikin  was  dropped  off  the  roof 
of  the  coach  on  to  the  sand,  where  he  lay 
swearing  so  fearfully  that  the  wonder  was 
that  he  held  together.  After  this  episode  the 
other  passengers  paid  their  fares. 

On  they  jogged  over  the  great  plain.  Flip- 
perty  fell  asleep,  and  the  long-legged  digger 
put  his  arm  around  her  to  prevent  her  from 
slipping  off  the  seat. 

"  Poor  little  pup,"  he  said,  looking  down 
on  her  tired  face — "  poor  damned  little  pup." 

The  sun  was  sinking  west  when  some  one 
called  out  "  Teetulpa  !  " 

Flipperty  saw  rows  and  rows  of  dirty  ob 
long  tents,  intersected  by  half -dug  claims.  A 
thick  yellow  mist  hung  above  the  diggings ; 
in  some  places  it  seemed  to  sag  down  till  it 
almost  rested  on  the  tents. 


138  THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY 

The  driver  drew  up  at  the  store. 

"  Well,  boys,  what  noos  ?  "  he  cried  to  a 
group  of  men,  who  gathered  round. 

"  Gold  found  at  Kidd's  gully,"  one  of  the 
bystanders  answered.  "  A  nine-ounce  nug 
get  ;  but,  darn  yer  eyes,  they  stick  such  lies 
inter  yer  that  it  may  be  devil's  bunkum  for 
all  I  know." 

The  long-legged  digger  turned  to  Flip- 
perty.  "  Come  inter  the  store,"  he  said ; 
"  we'll  see  if  we  can't  fix  that  brother  of 
yours." 

The  store  was  a  roughly  constructed 
wooden  shed  with  a  corrugated  iron  roof; 
the  interior  was  divided  by  a  canvas  parti 
tion  running  half-way  to  the  roof.  The  room 
that  they  now  entered  was  full  of  men,  some 
playing  cards,  others  leaning  up  against  the 
walls,  smoking  and  drinking. 

"  What  name  does  your  brother  hang  out 
by?"  the  digger  asked. 

"Philip,"  Flipperty  answered, — "Philip 
Deene." 

"  Have  any  of  you  chaps  seen  a  cove  called 
Deene  lately  ? "  he  inquired,  turning  to  a 
group  of  men  standing  at  the  bar. 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  139 

"Wot's  the  bally  beggar  like?"  one  of 
tliem  asked. 

"  He's  very  tall,"  Flipperty  answered, 
"  with  blue  eyes  and  hair  all  over  curls." 

"  Ain't  clapped  eyes  on  the  damned  doll," 
he  said,  with  a  coarse  laugh. 

"There's  a  long-legged  chap  called  Deene 
down  with  the  fever,"  one  of  the  card-players 
exclaimed,  looking  round. 

"Where  does  he  hang  out?"  asked  the 
friendly  digger,  with  a  quick  glance  at  Flip 
perty. 

"  Foller  the  creek  down  past  they  big  gums, 
and  his  canvas  is  the  last  on  the  left  bank." 

The  long-legged  digger  turned  and  went 
out  of  the  store,  followed  by  Flipperty.  She 
put  her  small  hand  into  his  rough  one,  and 
the  man's  great  fingers,  scored  with  purple 
scars  from  the  barcoo  rot,  closed  over  them. 
They  reached  the  tent  indicated,  the  digger 
pushed  aside  the  canvas  flap,  and  Flipperty 
entered.  Lying  on  some  tattered  blankets, 
with  parched  lips,  burning  skin,  and  eyes 
that  failed  to  recognise  her,  was  Philip. 

The  child  rushed  forward.  "Philip! 
Philip ! "  she  cried,  flinging  herself  down 


140  THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY 

beside  him,  "  it's  Flipperty,  your  little  Flip- 
perty.  I  couldn't  wait,  Philip,  I  couldn't 
wait." 

But  he  did  not  answer  her. 

"Philip,  Philip,"  she  sobbed,  "Philip, 
Philip." 

The  sick  man  pushed  her  from  him  and 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  I  shall  be  too  late,"  he  cried ;  "  O  God  ! 
I  shall  be  too  late."  Then  he  fell  forward 
on  his  face,  unconscious. 

The  long-legged  digger  raised  him  gently 
and  laid  him  back  on  the  rough  bed. 

"  The  poor  beggar  is  half  dead  with  fever," 
he  exclaimed.  "You  stay  here,  little  'un," 
he  added,  turning  to  Flipperty,  "  and  I'll  see 
if  I  can't  lay  hands  on  the  bally  doctor. 
Great  God  Almighty,  how  hot  it  is  !  I  won 
der  if  I  can't  fix  the  flap  of  the  tent  back 
somehow." 

The  sound  of  revolver  shots  echoed  through 
the  tent. 

"  There's  some  of  those  drunken  devils  fir 
ing  away  at  each  other,"  he  said  ;  "  a  bullet 
through  the  heart  of  a  good  round  dozen  of 
'em  wouldn't  do  the  credit  of  the  camp  any 


THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY  141 

harm.  Well,  keep  your  pecker  up,  little  'un. 
I'll  prospect  round  for  the  doctor ;  half  the 
camp  is  down  with  the  fever,  they  say.  I 
reckon  I  shall  have  the  devil's  own  work  to 
find  him." 

Then  he  went  out,  leaving  Flipperty  alone 
with  Philip.  She  lay  down  beside  him,  placed 
her  cheek  against  his  cheek,  and  her  small, 
thin  arms  clasped  his  broad  shoulders.  The 
sun  sank  and  swept  the  long  shadows  into 
one  uniform  grey-black  mass ;  then  the  moon 
rose,  and  its  soft  light  stole  across  the  great 
plain,  making  the  blue  bush  look  quite  soft : 
it  fell,  too,  on  the  brother  and  sister.  The 
hours  crept  by,  but  the  long-legged  digger 
did  not  return,  nor  did  Philip  wake.  The 
grey  light  of  dawn  shivered  in  the  east,  and 
Flipperty  realised  that  Philip  had  grown 
strangely  cold :  she  drew  the  blanket  close, 
and  pressed  her  own  little  form  nearer  to 
him.  Then  day  broke,  and  as  the  great  plain 
reddened  beneath  the  sun  a  vast  crowd  of 
flies  rose  from  the  ground  and  entered  the 
tent. 

Flipperty  gave  a  shriek  of  agony :  myriads 
had  settled  on  Philip's  face. 


142  THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY 

Long  she  knelt  and  fought  an  ever-losing 
battle  with  the  insects  :  then  the  doctor  en 
tered  the  tent. 

"  My  poor  lad,"  he  said,  "  your  brother  is 
dead." 

"  The  flies,"  she  cried,  "  the  flies  are  eating 
his  face." 

The  doctor  took  off  his  coat  and  spread  it 
over  the  dead  man's  face. 

"They  cannot  touch  him  now,"  he  said. 
"Come  outside  with  me,  and  we  will  get 
some  gum-tree  boughs  to  put  over  him." 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  will  stay  with  Philip." 

The  doctor  went  out,  and  returned  in  a 
few  moments,  his  arms  full  of  eucalyptus 
branches:  he  crossed  the  dead  man's  arms 
upon  his  breast,  and  covered  him  with  the 
gum-tree  boughs.  Then  he  turned  to  Flip- 
perty,  and  taking  a  flask  out  of  his  pocket, 
poured  some  brandy  into  a  cup. 

"  Drink  this,"  he  said. 

She  drank  obediently. 

"  You  must  tell  me  where  to  find  your 
people,"  he  asked,  kindly. 

But  she  stood  staring  down  at  Philip,  and 
did  not  answer  him. 


THE  FAILURE  OF  FLIPPERTY      143 

"Poor  little  chap,"  the  doctor  exclaimed 
softly,  turning  away.  "  You  must  come  with 
me  now,  like  a  brave  boy,"  he  added. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  I  will  stay  with 
Philip." 

"My  poor  little  fellow,  you  can  do  him 
no  good." 

"  Go  away,  go  away,"  she  cried,  passion 
ately ;  "I  want  to  be  with  Philip." 

Pie  went  out :  later  in  the  afternoon  he 
returned,  and  with  him  were  two  men  bear 
ing  a  rough  coffin  ;  one  of  the  men  was  the 
long-legged  digger.  There  was  a  look  of 
shame  in  his  face,  and  he  bent  down  over 
Flipperty.  She  was  lying  with  her  arms 
clasped  round  her  brother. 

"  God  strike  me  for  a  damned  hound," 
he  said,  "  but  I  got  drunk  and  forgot 
yer." 

Philip's  body  was  placed  in  the  coffin ;  it 
had  been  made  out  of  old  packing-cases — 
"  five  prize  medals  "  was  painted  in  big  black 
letters  across  the  side.  The  lid  was  nailed 
down,  and  they  carried  the  coffin  outside  the 
camp  to  where  a  rough  grave  had  been  dug 
beneath  a  great  gum-tree.  The  doctor  took 


144  THE   FAILURE   OF   FLIPPERTY 

a  prayer-book  out  of  his  pocket,  but  the 
burial-service  had  been  torn  out. 

He  began  quoting  from  memory,  "  <  And 
they  shall  rest  from  their  labours.' ' 

"  A  damned  good  thing,  too,"  said  the 
long-legged  digger. 

"  Fill  up  the  grave,  men,  it's  too  horrible," 
the  doctor  exclaimed. 

The  men  fell  to  work  :  soon  the  grave  was 
filled  in.  Flipperty  flung  herself  down  on 
the  spot  beneath  which  Philip  lay  buried. 

"  Best  leave  him  alone  a  bit,  lads,"  the 
doctor  said,  in  a  voice  that  choked  strangely. 
Then  they  left  her. 

Later  the  long-legged  digger  returned ; 
with  him  was  another  man.  Raising  Flip 
perty  in  his  arms,  he  held  her  out  towards 
the  stranger. 

"  Her  be  yer  pup,  ain't  her  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I'm  her  stepfather." 

"  Wall,"  said  the  long-legged  digger, 
slowly,  "  her's  sleeping  now ;  maybe  her'll 
wake  soon  enough,"  and  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  left  them. 


THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 


THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 

ITvEEP  in  the  Australian  Alps  is  the  little 
U  town  of  Omeo.  The  hills  around  are 
scored  with  worked-out  and  long-forsaken 
gold-mines  ;  here  and  there  the  thud  of  the 
pick  may  still  be  heard  issuing  from  some 
deep  shaft ;  but  most  of  the  claims  are  de 
serted,  and  the  men  who  worked  them  swept 
away  towards  other  adventures,  or  lying  quiet 
and  ambitionless  under  the  Gippsland  sod. 

Far  up  the  mountain,  where  the  sarsapa- 
rilla  hangs  from  the  gum-trees  its  ragged 
flame  of  blue,  is  a  deserted  mine ;  great  heaps 
of  yellow  mullock  line  the  shaft's  mouth; 
above,  the  windlass  rots  out  its  broken  exist 
ence  ;  and  farther  in  the  shadow  an  uneven 
mound,  a  broad  crack,  a  post  with  a  piece  of 
tin  and  the  name  "  Battista  "  scrawled  upon 
it,  mark  a  grave. 

One  of  the  early  rushes  had  brought  Bat 
tista  to  Australia,  and  drifted  him  to  the 

147 


148         THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 

little  mining  camp  among  the  Gippsland  hills. 
The  men  had  laughed  at  his  high-pointed  hat 
with  its  flapping  curves,  and  at  his  blue-and- 
gold  image  of  the  Madonna ;  but  Battista  had 
wandered  under  the  gum-trees,  and  paid  scant 
heed  to  them.  Sometimes  he  had  stooped  to 
pick  up  a  piece  of  quartz  and  rub  it  absently 
on  his  sleeve ;  and  when  the  evening  came  he 
had  taken  up  his  shepherd's  pipe  and  sounded 
once  more  the  airs  he  had  played  in  the  far- 
off  Abruzzi. 

At  dawn,  as  Battista  stood  and  watched  the 
sun  flame  up  in  the  east,  and  fall  in  a  broad 
yellow  stream  upon  the  Madonna's  image,  the 
thought  came  to  him  that  there  where  the  ray 
fell  he  would  dig  for  gold,  and  the  idea  com 
forted  him :  it  seemed  as  if  the  Blessed  Virgin 
herself  had  deigned  to  point  out  a  way  of 
escape  from  this  strange  and  homeless  land. 
Many  days  he  worked :  the  yellow  mullock- 
heaps  rose  higher  beside  the  rapidly  deepen 
ing  shaft,  when  a  long-limbed,  brown-faced 
American  "jumped"  his  claim.  Battista  had 
neglected  to  procure  a  licence. 

At  first  he  could  not  understand  what  had 
happened :  afterwards,  when  he  realised,  he 


THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL         149 

took  his  broad  keen-edged  knife,  and  laying 
it  at  the  Madonna's  feet,  begged  her  to  bless 
it,  and  having  crossed  himself,  turned  away 
and  went  down  the  mountain-side  till  he 
reached  the  camp.  He  touched  the  American 
on  the  arm  and  pointed  to  his  knife ;  the  man 
from  the  States  laughed  lightly ;  then  they 
drew  aside  and  fought  together,  and  Battista's 
foot  slipped  so  that  his  enemy  escaped  him ; 
but  that  evening  the  American  sold  the  mine 
to  Termater  Bill  the  storekeeper  for  three 
long  drinks  and  a  new  swag,  going  away  to 
try  his  luck  elsewhere.  As  for  Battista,  he 
returned  once  more  to  his  claim  at  the  foot  of 
the  ragged-breasted  gum-trees,  and  here  it 
was  that  Termater  Bill  found  him. 

"  I've  jest  cum,"  he  said,  sitting  down  on 
a  great  heap  of  mullock,  "  to  talk  over  that 
blanky  claim.  I  reckon  myself  there  is  gold 
in  it." 

But  Battista  answered  that,  gold  or  no 
gold,  the  mine  was  his,  and  he  would  kill 
any  one  who  tried  to  take  it  from  him. 

Termater  Bill  was  silent  for  a  while,  and 
spat  meditatively  down  the  narrow  shaft. 
At  last  he  observed  in  an  undertone — 


150        THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 

"  The  boys  says  that  jumpt-up  busted  blue 
doll  o'  yers  brings  luck." 

Battista  did  not  understand  the  allusion 
to  the  Madonna,  and  made  no  reply. 

Again  there  was  a  long  silence:  at  last 
Termater  Bill  rose  and  stretched  himself. 
"  'Spose,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  was  ter  give  yer 
a  fifteen  years'  lease,  wi'  a  half  share  in  the 
profits,  twud  be  a  blanky  sight  better  than 
a  poke  in  the  eye  with  a  burnt  stick."  But 
Battista  went  on  digging,  and  paid  no  heed 
to  him,  till  after  a  while  the  storekeeper  went 
away. 

Time  passed  by :  the  great  mullock-heaps 
grew  higher,  but  Battista  did  not  find  gold. 
Sometimes  Termater  Bill  strolled  up  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  "  struck  that  blanky  lead 
yet  ?  "  Then  Battista  shook  his  head,  but 
added  that  he  knew  the  gold  was  there, — the 
Blessed  Madonna  had  said  so.  Termater  Bill 
spat  down  the  long  shaft  and  exclaimed,  "That 
ther  jumpt-r.p  busted  blue  doll  gits  me  quite." 

But  when  night  fell  and  grotesque  things 
moved  in  and  out  among  the  shadows,  and 
the  spirit  of  desolation  crept  through  the 
bush,  then  had  come  into  Battista' s  heart  a 


THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL        151 

great  weariness  of  waiting,  and  he  had  flung 
himself  down  before  the  image  of  the  Ma 
donna  and  wept. 

And  the  little  blue-and-gold  figure  had 
stared  out  into  the  gathering  darkness  with 
its  blank  meaningless  smile  as  vacant  and  as 
indifferent  as  before. 

It  happened  that  in  one  of  these  moments 
Terinater  Bill  had  come  to  the  hut,  and  Bat- 
tista,  realising  that  another  person  was  pres 
ent,  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"There's  gold  in  that  claim,"  he  cried 
fiercely. 

Termater  Bill  spat  on  the  ground  and  said, 
"  Thet's  so." 

"  I  tell  you  there  is  gold  in  that  claim," 
Battista  re-echoed  with  rising  anger. 

And  Termater  Bill  spat  on  the  ground 
once  more  and  repeated,  "  Thet's  so  "  ;  then 
had  turned  and  gone  down  the  mountain 
towards  the  camp.  "If  it  warn't  for  that 
busted  blue  doll,"  he  repeated  to  himself — 
"  the  jumpt-up  busted  thing."" 

The  next  day  he  came  again  and  sat  down 
on  an  old  hide  bucket  in  front  of  Battista' s 
hut.  "  I've  bin  fixin'  things  up  a  bit  in  my 


152        THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 

mind,"  he  said ;  "  I  reckon  last  night  I  was  a 
bit  ski-wift.  Now  'spose,"  he  continued,  tak 
ing  off  his  hat  and  placing  it  before  him  on 
the  ground,  "that  thar  'at  is  the  Brown 
Snake  Mine ;  wall,  us  knows  their  main  lead 
runs  purty  slick  to  the  nor'-east;  say  yer  put 
in  a  drive  by  that  tarnation  bit  o'  grass 
bush,"  and  he  spat  neatly  into  the  centre  of 
the  spot  indicated,  "wot's  ter  prevent  yer 
dropping  on  gold  ?  " 

Battista's  lips  relaxed  into  a  smile.  Ter- 
mater  Bill  rubbed  the  sleeve  of  his  shirt 
across  his  rough  red  face,  glancing  as  he  did 
so  at  his  companion. 

"  Luck  is  a  thundering  quare  consarn,"  he 
exclaimed,  after  a  pause  ;  "  I  niver  bottomed 
it  myself :  if  yer  don't  git  it,  it  gits  yer,  an7 
I  reckon  the  darned  thing  is  the  smartest  wi' 
the  gloves." 

He  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and 
pressed  his  horny  thumb  down  on  the  red-hot 
ashes. 

"  I  wudn't  lay  too  much  on  that  jumpt-up 
blue  doll,  if  I  was  yer,"  he  said. 

Battista  smiled.  "You  don't  understand," 
he  answered. 


THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL         153 

And  Termater  Bill  spat  on  the  ground. 
"  Eh,  thet's  so,"  he  said,  "  thet's  so." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  But,"  began  Termater  Bill. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  Italian. 

"  'Tis  the  tarnation  grin  on  the  thing  that 
gits  me,"  the  storekeeper  burst  out,  "jest  as 
if  her  was  kinder  larfin'  at  yer ;  her  ain't  no 
rnug  that  busted  doll,  I'll  lay  to  that." 

Battista  frowned.  "You  don't  under 
stand,"  he  reiterated. 

Again  Termater  Bill  spat  on  the  ground. 
"Eh,  thet's  so,"  he  said,  "thet's  so." 

A  few  weeks  later  a  big  bush-fire  swept 
across  the  hills,  and  the  storekeeper  had 
enough  to  do  without  troubling  himself 
about  the  mine ;  but  when  a  sudden  change 
of  wind  sent  the  fire  raging  and  tearing 
through  the  Fainting  Ranges  and  away  in 
the  direction  of  Mount  Hopeless,  he  retraced 
his  steps  over  the  blackened  ground  till  he 
reached  Battista's  hut.  It  was  empty :  close 
by  the  hide  rope  dangled  from  the  windlass ; 
the  woods  were  silent  except  for  the  crashing 
of  some  half -charred  tree  as  it  toppled  over 
and  fell  with  a  great  splutter  of  cinders  and 


154         THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 

wide  swirling  clouds  of  soft  grey  ashes ;  and 
stretched  face  downwards,  near  the  shaft's 
mouth,  the  Italian  lay  dead.  Ter mater  Bill 
turned  the  body  over. 

"  Pegged  out,"  he  said  softly — "  the  blanky 
cuss  has  pegged  out."  Then  he  turned  to  the 
door  of  the  hut  and  stopped  short.  "  No,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  I  reckon  I  won't :  I  reckon  I 
cudn't  stummick  thet  God's  cuss  o'  a  grin 
jest  yet." 

That  afternoon  they  dug  Battista's  grave 
beside  his  claim, — a  crowd  of  idle  diggers  and 
dogs  looked  on.  One  man,  an  old  fossicker, 
who  was  recovering  from  an  attack  of  the 
jim-jams  (delirium  tremens),  and  whose  ideas 
were  still  rather  hazy,  expressed  a  desire  to 
fight  the  corpse. 

"  Git  up,"  he  said,  "  an'  I  will  wrastle  wi' 
yer ;  git  up,  yer  blanked-out  son  o7  a  working 
bullock,  an'  I  will  fight  yer  for  a  note." 

But  the  dead  man  lay  still  and  paid  no 
heed  to  him. 

Terniater  Bill  said  he  reckoned  the  com 
pany  wud  'low  him  to  say  a  few  words. 

The  company  'lowed  him. 

Some  of  the  men  sat  down  on  the  mullock- 


THE  BUSTED   BLUE  DOLL  155 

heaps  and  began  to  fill  their  pipes ;  others 
stood  about ;  and  one,  a  jackeroo,1  took  off 
his  hat  and  then  rather  sheepishly  put  it  on 
again. 

Terniater  Bill  cleared  his  throat  and  spat 
into  the  open  grave.  "  Life,"  he  said,  "  was  a 
jumpt-up  quare  thing :  there  wa7  they  who 
bottomed  payable  dirt2  fust  go  off,  an'  thar 
wa'  they  who — didn't."  He  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  and  rubbed  his  face  with  his  sleeve. 
"  But,"  he  continued,  "  maybe  out  thar,"  and 
he  pointed  vaguely  towards  a  patch  of  sunset 
sky,  "  across  the  Divide,  they  finds  colour."  8 
He  ceased  speaking,  and  the  men  puffed  away 
at  their  pipes  in  silence  :  at  last  some  one 
suggested  that  it  was  time  for  the  corpse  to 
"  turn  in." 

They  lowered  the  dead  man  into  the  grave, 
— there  was  no  cofiin.  His  arms  had  stiffened 
spread-eagle  fashion,  and  he  lay  sideways 
against  the  walls  of  the  grave  and  looked  as  if 
he  were  about  to  turn  a  wheel  into  eternity. 
They  shovelled  back  the  earth  rather  gingerly, 

lately  arrived  colonist. 

2  Bottom  payable  dirt=ftud  sufficient  gold  to  pay  working 
expenses. 

3  Find  cofowr=find  gold. 


156        THE  BUSTED  BLUE  DOLL 

avoiding  the  dead  man's  face ;  but,  after  all, 
it  had  to  be  covered  the  same  as  the  rest. 
When  they  had  finished  their  task  they 
strolled  ofE  towards  the  camp,  only  Termater 
Bill  remaining  behind.  He  went  to  Battista's 
hut  and  peered  through  the  half-shut  door : 
there  in  the  corner  the  little  blue-and-gold 
image  stared,  smiling  down  inscrutable,  in 
different.  Long  the  man  gazed  back  on  it ; 
then  with  sudden  determination  he  entered 
the  hut,  and  taking  Battista's  coat  from  a 
bench,  covered  the  small  figure,  then  lifting  it 
in  his  arms,  carried  it  out  and  flung  it  down 
the  deep  shaft. 

But  under  the  gum-trees  Battista  lay  still, 
silent,  satisfied.  The  years  went  on,  the 
bottom  of  the  shaft  filled  with  water,  and  the 
mullock  slipped  back  into  it  with  a  heavy 
splash;  the  windlass  rotted  and  grew  green, 
and  some  one  stole  the  bucket  and  hide  rope ; 
far,  far  below  in  the  valley  the  sweet-scented 
wattle  burst  into  tufted  yellow  balls,  and  the 
blue  mists  lay  on  Onieo. 


THE   ENGLISH   GIRL'S    CHRISTMAS 
PRESENTS 


THE   ENGLISH    GIRL'S    CHRISTMAS 
PRESENTS 

SHE  had  no  particular  reason  for  coming  to 
Dresden,  unless  it  was  that  a  friend  had 
once  told  her  of  two  very  old,  very  poor  Ger 
man  ladies  who  kept  a  pension  there,  and  who 
were  on  bad  terms  with  their  pension  because 
it  refused  to  keep  them.  The  clock  in  the 
Kreutz  Kirche  struck  one  as  the  droschlce 
drew  up  in  front  of  their  door ;  but  the  table 
in  the  dining-room  was  not  laid  for  lunch — 
she  had  come  either  too  early  or  too  late  for 
the  meal.  She  took  two  rooms;  there  were 
no  other  boarders. 

It  was  Christmas  week :  snow  lay  on  the 
ground  and  Christmas  day  at  the  door  ;  there 
was  a  general  air  of  bustle  and  excitement 
about  the  streets.  The  pension,  however, 
remained  quiet  enough,  the  two  Frauleins 
had  not  yet  begun  their  Christmas  prepara 
tions.  The  rooms  were  cold,  damp,  musty, 

159 


160 

— Fraulein  Kathe  said  that  "when  the  fire 
was  lit,  then  !  Hein ! "  she  concluded,  hold 
ing  up  her  hands,  "we  have  this  morning 
run  out  of  coals." 

The  English  girl  asked  them  to  change  a 
hundred-mark  note,  to  take  the  first  week's 
rent  out  of  it — she  needed  small  money. 
Soon  a  fire  was  spluttering  in  the  tall  china 
stove;  the  two  Frauleins  buzzed  about  it 
like  bees :  they  had  a  half -scared,  half -awed 
look, — they  might  almost  have  been  fire-wor 
shippers. 

A  little  later,  Fraulein  Marta,  the  younger 
of  the  two  sisters,  went  out  to  make  some 
purchases ;  the  English  girl  went  with  her. 
The  Alt  Markt,  Neu  Markt,  and  each  spare 
Platz  were  massed  with  green  fir-trees,  all 
shapes,  sizes,  and  price.  Fraulein  Maria's 
eyes  glowed.  "  Every  German,"  she  said, 
"  rich  or  poor,  has  his  tree  at  Christmas. 

We "  she  stopped  short.  "We-  -" 

she  stopped  again — "ah,  possibly  this  year 
we  shall  have  one  at  our  friend's."  Depres 
sion  seemed  to  fall  on  her,  but  it  was  only 
momentary.  "  Just  look  at  those  Stotten" 
she  exclaimed,  flattening  her  small,  round 


CHRISTMAS  PRESENTS  161 

nose  against  a  confectioner's  window.  "  Stol- 
len  is  our  Christmas  cake — Marzipan ! 
Chocolade !  Du  lieber  Hirnrnel !  but  there 
is  no  time  like  Christmas.  It  heals  the 
heart  through  the  eyes." 

She  stood  a  moment  in  front  of  a  stall  and 
fingered  some  brilliant  coloured  stuffs  lovingly 
with  her  worn  hands.  "  My  sister,"  she  said, 
"  would  call  such  colours  vulgar,  but  I  love 
the  bright  things.  You,"  she  continued,  turn 
ing  to  the  girl,  "  you  will  have  lots  of  Christ 
mas  presents,  no  doubt.  Ach,  what  it  is  to 
be  young  !  We — we  shall  have  many  gifts, 
too:  Christmas  is  for  the  old  and  young  alike." 

The  English  girl  expected  no  presents,  but 
she  did  not  say  so :  she  felt  a  little  ashamed 
of  her  friendless  condition,  and  as  the  days 
went  on  the  feeling  increased.  She  gathered 
from  the  conversation  of  the  two  sisters  that 
they,  on  their  part,  were  assured  of  being 
almost  overburdened  with  gifts. 

But  then,  as  they  said,  "  Christmas  is 
Christmas,  and  one  takes  the  little  things  and 
one  gives  them  in  the  same  spirit." 

The  girl  lay  awake  at  night  and  counted 

the  people  who  might   possibly  send  her  a 
11 


162  THE  ENGLISH   GIRL^S 

present ;  she  could  only  think  of  two,  and  the 
more  she  thought  about  the  matter,  the 
more  certain  she  became  that  this  year  they 
would  neglect  to  do  so.  The  moment  came 
when  she  would  have  telegraphed  to  them, 
"  For  Heaven's  sake  send  me  a  present " — • 
but  Christmas  Eve  had  already  arrived. 

Reduced  to  despair,  she  determined  at  last 
to  buy  herself  a  number  of  presents,  and  tell 
the  sisters  that  they  had  been  given  to  her  by 
friends.  She  bought  things  that  she  needed, 
— pins,  sealing-wax,  string  :  then  the  thought 
struck  her  that,  should  either  Fraulein  Kathe 
or  Marta  ask  to  see  the  contents  of  such  par 
cels,  they  would  certainly  fail  of  being  im 
pressed.  So  she  went  out  a  second  time  and 
tried  to  look  at  the  shops  with  their  eyes,  and 
buy  things  that  they  would  think  beautiful. 
On  her  return  she  hid  her  purchases  deep 
down  in  her  trunk.  She  was  still  on  her  knees 
before  the  box  when  Fraulein  Marta  entered. 
The  girl  blushed,  shame-faced ;  the  Fraulein 
seemed  also  a  little  discomposed. 

"  You  will  be  dining  to-morrow  with  friends, 
no  doubt,"  she  said.  "  We  also  shall — dine 
with — friends." 


CHRISTMAS   PRESENTS  163 

The  English  girl  knew  no  one  in  Dresden. 
"  Oh — ah  yes,  of  course,"  she  said,  "  I  shall 
be  dining  with  friends — several  friends." 

Fraulein  Marta  smiled  down  upon  her : 
"  Frbliliclie  Weihnackt, — Merry  Christmas, 
as  you  say  in  your  country." 

"  Merry  Christmas,"  the  girl  repeated,  with 
a  sob  in  her  throat.  "  Dear  old  Christmas,  I 
love  it — don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  old  woman,  simply ; 
"  I  have  always  loved  it, — even — when — 

well,  well "  she  stopped.  uSee,"  she 

added,  with  a  half  shiver,  "  how  thickly  it 


snows." 


"  Sit  by  the  fire  and  tell  me  things,"  said 
the  girl. 

Fraulein  Maria's  face  brightened  :  "  My 
sister  knows  so  many  more  stories  than  I  do. 
Shall  I  call  her  ?  " 

«  Will  you  ?  " 

But  when  the  two  sisters  sat  before  the 
high  white  china  stove  the  heat  seemed  to 
make  them  drowsy,  and  they  fell  asleep. 

Christmas  day  brought  the  girl  a  number 
of  letters  and  parcels  which  she  had  posted 
over-night.  She  laid  them  in  a  conspicuous 


164  THE   ENGLISH   GIKL?S 

place  on  the  table,  but  the  two  Frauleins 
seemed  occupied  with  their  own  affairs,  and 
did  not  glance  that  way.  The  evening  came ; 
the  candles  on  the  Christmas  trees  were  lit, 
and  round  them  children  big  and  little 
crowded  with  eyes  and  mouths  wide  open, 
expectant.  The  English  girl  went  out  into 
the  streets,  crossed  the  Biirgerwiese,  and 
entered  the  Grosser  Garten.  It  had  been 
freezing  hard, — the  ground  clanged  like  metal 
beneath  her  feet ;  from  time  to  time  a  branch 
split  off  short  from  beneath  its  weight  of 
snow,  and  the  air  below  the  ice-bound  ponds 
growled  heavily.  Leaving  the  road  for  a 
narrow  foot-track,  she  pierced  deeper  into 
the  solitude.  A  great  self-pity  fell  upon 
her, — she  sobbed  because  every  one  in  the 
whole  world  was  more  happy  than  she  :  even 
the  two  Frauleins  had  friends ;  they  were  not 
obliged  to  buy  presents  for  themselves, — and 
she  sobbed  again.  High  up  in  the  sky  the 
moon  kicked  a  way  through  the  heavy  clouds, 
but  the  stars  were  hidden.  Suddenly  the 
girl  heard  voices ;  unnoticed  by  herself  she 
had  approached  a  summer-house.  She  drew 
nearer,  and,  peering  in,  saw  the  two  sisters. 


CHRISTMAS   PRESENTS  165 

Far  away  in  the  town  the  Kreutz  Kirche 
clock  tolled  nine. 

Fraulein  Marta  sighed.  "  Are  you  cold, 
sister  ? "  she  said.  "  In  another  half  hour 
we  might  go  home." 

"Ah  yes,  in  another  half  hour;  but  what 
shall  we  do  if  she  asks  to  see  the  presents  ? " 

"Perhaps  she  may  not  ask;  I  was  careful 
not  even  to  glance  at  hers."  The  girl  stole 
away,  and,  hurrying  back  to  the  house,  lifted 
the  presents  out  from  the  trunks  and  wrote  on 
them  Fraulein  Marta  andKathe's  names,  then, 
making  them  into  one  big  package,  went  out 
again  into  the  night.  The  snow  fell  softly 
upon  her  as  she  stood  in  the  street  waiting  for 
the  two  sisters  to  return  home.  At  last  she 
saw  them  cross  the  Platz,  their  thin  figures 
bent,  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  white  light 
that  the  snow  flung  back  upon  them.  They 
cast  a  fugitive  look  round,  before  entering 
their  house.  The  door  clanged  close  on  their 
heels,  the  echo  ringing  down  the  street.  For 
a  moment  the  girl  stood  and  listened  to  it,  then 
moving  away,  she  found  a  dienstman,  gave 
him  the  parcel  containing  the  presents,  and 
told  him  to  deliver  it  at  the  pension.  When 


16G  THE  ENGLISH    GIRL'S   CHRISTMAS   PRESENTS 

she  returned  later,  Fraulein  Marta  called  her 
into  the  dining-room.  "  Sehen  Sie  nur,"  she 
said,  pointing  at  the  presents  that  lay  un 
packed  upon  the  table;  "  Christmas  is  Christ 
mas  for  old  and  young  alike." 


THE  RED-HAIRED  MAN'S  DREAM 


THE  RED-HAIRED  MAN'S  DREAM 

CHAPTER  I 

DUSK  had  fallen  on  the  close  of  a  March 
afternoon,  when,  the  train  having 
bumped  slowly  across  the  Roman  Campagna, 
stopped  at  Valmonte  station  and  deposited 
two  English  girls.  A  few  minutes  later  it 
crawled  away,  and  the  two  girls  scrambled 
up  on  the  yellow  diligence,  with  its  big, 
flapping  leather  hood.  The  driver  mounted 
the  box,  the  three  horses  broke  into  a  gallop, 
the  long-lashed  whip  cracking  loud  and  clear 
in  the  gathering  darkness.  A  man,  seated 
face  to  his  donkey's  tail  while  the  animal 
drank,  gazed  mildly  after  them. 

The  younger  girl  glanced  at  him  a  mo 
ment,  then,  laying  her  hand  on  her  friend's 
knee,  "  How  unlike  all  this  is  to  England, 
Jess  !  "  she  said.  The  other  was  silent  a  mo 
ment,  staring  out  into  the  gathering  darkness. 

169 


170          THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S  DREAM 

"  I  was  born  in  a  queer  old  grey  stone 
house  on  the  border  of  Exmoor,"  she  ex 
claimed  at  length.  "I  learnt  to  love  those 
moors,  with  their  look  as  if  the  peace  of 
God  had  settled  on  them  and  couldn't  be 
rubbed  off." 

"  It  is  a  long  time  now  since  you  were 
in  England,"  her  friend  said,  reflectively. 
"  Don't  you  ever  want  to  see  your  old  home 
again  ? " 

"  Home  !  "  Jess  repeated  in  a  bitter  voice. 
"  I  have  no  home ;  it  was  sold  years  ago 
when  my  parents  died.  Ah,  Roch,  I  hate 
the  past !  Don't  let  us  talk  about  it ;  "  and 
they  both  relapsed  again  into  silence. 

The  clock  had  struck  eleven  when  they 
reached  Olevano  :  the  village  stared  down 
indifferently  at  them,  looking  as  if  it  needed 
all  its  strength  to  cling  to  the  rocky  ridge 
on  which  it  had  obtained  foothold.  The  old 
castle,  the  tall,  narrow  clock- tower,  and  the 
lichened  roofs,  lay  wrapt  in  shadow.  Around, 
the  Hernican  Mountains  guarded  the  silence, 
and  in  the  valley  the  mist,  like  some  huge 
serpent,  slept  heavily.  A  few  minutes  later 
the  girls  were  climbing  up  the  crumbling 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  171 

steps  that  led  through  the  village  to  the 
Albergo.  Every  now  and  again  the  rays 
from  the  lamps,  mixing  with  the  moon 
beams,  would  light  up  the  entrance  of  some 
grim  stone  house,  where  below,  in  an  atmos 
phere  thick  with  smells,  the  inhabitants — 
pigs  included — slumbered.  A  gate  admitted 
them  to  an  olive-garden,  at  the  end  of  which 
rose  an  irregular,  battered  house, — it  was  the 
Albergo. 

Roch  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  she  clam 
bered  up  the  steps  and  opened  the  creaky 
door. 

Standing  close  to  the  lamp  was  a  tall,  gaunt 
young  Englishman :  his  head  was  bent,  and 
sagging  down  on  his  forehead  was  a  tumbled 
mop  of  red  hair.  In  his  hands,  which  were 
grotesquely  big,  was  a  kitten,  and  from  one 
of  its  paws  he  was  extracting  a  thorn.  For 
a  moment  they  regarded  each  other  in  silence  ; 
then,  the  thorn  extracted,  he  placed  the  kitten 
upon  the  ground,  and  Jess  entering  at  the 
same  time,  he  noticed  that  she  was  lame,  and 
that  she  looked  tired  and  sad :  the  expression 
of  annoyed  surprise  which  had  gathered  on 
his  face  passed  away. 


172  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"I  will  hunt  up  the  padrona,"  he  said. 
"I  am  afraid  every  one  has  gone  to  bed." 

"  Did  you  see  his  hands  !  "  Roch  exclaimed, 
when  she  and  her  friend  were  left  alone  to 
gether. 

"  Whose  ?  "  Jess  asked,  inattentively. 

"  Why,  the  Bed-haired  Man's,"  Koch  an 
swered. 


CHAPTER  II 

ROCH  rose  early  next  morning,  pulled  back 
the  worm-eaten  green  shutters,  gave  one 
glance  at  Olevano,  where  it  lay  sunning  its 
old,  patched  walls,  and  then  concentrated 
her  attention  on  dressing.  Later,  when  she 
entered  the  village,  she  was  greeted  by  the 
grunting  and  snorting  of  innumerable  pigs. 
Roch,  fresh  and  charming  herself  and  in  no 
wise  dismayed,  nodded  to  the  women  with 
the  water-cans  and  baskets  of  hot  polenta 
on  their  heads,  and  they,  in  their  turn,  smiled 
back  at  her.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  a  boy 
was  playing  ruzzola:  passing  him,  she  fol 
lowed  a  small  path  that  branched  off  from 
the  main  road,  leading  upwards.  Before  her 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  173 

and  around  lay  the  bracken-covered  hills, 
here  and  there  a  group  of  olive  trees ;  a 
freshly  turned  patch  of  earth  marked  where 
some  peasant  had  scrawled  his  laborious  pot 
hooks.  As  Koch  strolled  along  she  saw  above 
her,  lying  full  length  on  a  sloping  bank,  the 
Ked-haired  Man,  and  seated  astride  across 
his  chest  was  a  small,  bullet-headed  child 
about  two  years  old.  The  Ked-haired  Man 
appeared  to  be  wrapped  in  profound  slumber, 
hat  drawn  down  over  his  eyes  and  big  loose- 
jointed  hands  clasped  behind  his  head.  The 
baby,  on  the  contrary,  was  much  awake,  and 
Koch  began  to  make  faces  at  it :  the  child  re 
sponded  with  a  fat  crow  of  delight,  thumping 
the  man's  chest  to  emphasise  approval.  Koch 
glanced  round  :  no  one  being  in  sight,  she 
picked  up  her  skirts  and  executed  a  wild  jig ; 
the  baby  gave  one  chuckling  scream,  lost  its 
balance,  rolled  rapidly  down  the  sloping  bank, 
and  lay,  a  fat  little  lump  of  surprised,  pleased 
alarm,  at  Koch's  feet.  The  Ked-haired  Man 
jumped  up,  blushing  violently. 

"Dear  me,"  exclaimed  Koch,  glancing  at 
the  baby  in  apparent  astonishment.  "  Where 
did  it  come  from  ? " 


174  THE  RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"  It  is  Pico,  the  washerwoman's  baby,"  he 
answered,  stiffly.  "I  borrowed  it." 

"  And  do  you  roll  it  up  and  down  banks 
all  day?" 

"I  was  asleep." 

"  Is  that  how  you  take  care  of  babies  when 
you  borrow  them  ? " 

"  It  would  never  have  fallen  if  you  hadn't 
made  faces  at  it." 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  were  asleep." 

The  Red-haired  Man  appeared  not  to  hear 
the  remark. 

"  Now,  tell  me,"  Roch  exclaimed  with  in 
terest,  "  was  it  a  good  work  you  were  doing  ? 
Were  you  trying  to  improve  the  poor  by 
showing  them  beautiful  scenery  ?  Because  if 
you  were,  I  assure  you  it  is  quite  useless." 

His  wide  mouth  expanded  into  a  smile, 
showing  a  row  of  strong  white  teeth. 

Roch  decided  that  it  was  a  pleasant  smile, 
but  then,  it  was  on  so  gigantic  a  scale,  there 
was  room  for  something  pleasant  to  creep  in. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  I  was  trying  to  im 
prove  myself." 

"  Oh  how  ? "  she  asked,  genuinely  aston 
ished.  The  colour  rushed  into  his  face  :  the 


THE   KED-HAIKED   MAN'S   DREAM  175 

Red-haired  Man  had  a  detestable  habit  of 
blushing. 

"  Babies  believe  in  things,"  he  said,  lightly. 
"They  believe  in  themselves,  in  you,  in  the 
world  in  general." 

Roch  was  silent  a  moment,  scanning  him 
with  some  attention.  His  face,  boyish  in 
spite  of  its  gauntness,  was  that  of  a  man 
whose  first  tussle  with  facts  was  yet  to  come, 
and  who  was  ignorant  alike  of  the  powers  or 
passions  that  were  slumbering  in  him. 

"  You  must  be  very "  she  stopped  short. 

"What?  "he  asked. 

"  Young"  she  said,  slowly. 

There  was  a  pause  :  it  is  possible  that,  at 
moments,  the  Red-haired  Man  had  himself 
been  haunted  by  such  a  thought. 

His  manner  stiffened.  "  Woman's  lack  of 
penetration  is  proverbial,"  he  answered. 

"  H'mn,"  said  Roch,  turning  away,  "  h'mn." 
She  walked  a  few  paces,  halted,  and  glanced 
back  at  him.  He  was  still  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  bank,  gazing  indignantly  in  her 
direction. 

"  Can  you  speak  Italian  ?  "  she  asked. 

"A  little,"  he  answered,  with  cool  terse- 


176  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

ness.  He  had  no  desire  to  prolong  the  con 
versation. 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  returning  once  more 
to  the  foot  of  the  bank.  "  Will  you  buy  me 
a  pig  ? " 

"A  pig!" 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  fashion  in  Olevano.  Now, 
if  you  had  had  a  pig  with  you  this  morning 
instead  of  a  baby — dear  me,"  glancing  round 
as  she  spoke,  "  where  is  the  baby  ?  Why," 
she  continued,  flinging  away  her  sunshade 
and  running  along  the  path,  "  there  it  is 
crawling  down  a  precipice." 

With  a  couple  of  strides  the  Red-haired 
Man  had  cleared  the  bank  and  was  past  her ; 
the  next  moment  he  had  grabbed  Pico,  drag 
ging  him  back  into  safety  by  the  heels. 

"How  careless  you  are,"  cried  Koch,  who 
had  been  thoroughly  frightened.  "  Just 
think,"  she  added  indignantly,  "  in  another 
instant  it  might  have  been  killed." 

His  face  was  very  white.  "  I  shan't  think 
anything  of  the  kind,"  he  replied  with  equal 
indignation,  "  because  it  is  saved." 

"  Saved  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why,  you 
are  holding  it  by  the  heels !  " 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  177 

The  Red-li aired  Man  hastily  righted  Pico, 
who,  astonished  at  the  marvellous  yet  in 
voluntary  evolutions  he  had  been  made  to 
perform,  was  howling  with  some  lustiness. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said  Roch.  "  You  are 
not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a  child." 

"  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  he  answered, 
fiercely. 

Roch  looked  at  him,  and  then  burst  into  a 
peal  of  laughter. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  the  sooner  that  baby 
gives  up  believing  in  you  the  better."  Then 
she  proceeded  on  her  way,  leaving  the  Red- 
haired  Man  consumed  with  indignation. 

CHAPTER  III 

A  FEW  days  later  Jess  was  sitting  under  the 
Albergo  loggia  when  the  Bed-haired  Man 
joined  her.  He  glanced  down  as  she  leant 
back  in  the  rocking-chair,  remembering,  with 
a  pang  of  pity,  that  she  was  lame.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  this  lameness  probably  accounted 
for  the  bitter  expression  of  her  face :  it  was 
a  strange,  contradictory  face  ;  well-bred  in 

detail,  there  was  a  certain  nobility  about  the 
12 


178  THE   EED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

wide  brow  and  full-couraged  eyes,  but  the 
mouth,  thin,  hard,  compressed,  was  the  mouth 
of  a  middle-aged,  disappointed  woman.  Yet 
the  girl  was  young  enough — twenty-two,  at 
most.  Looking  at  her,  he  found  himself 
wondering  whether  the  lips  would  grow  full 
and  soft  if  kissed :  they  were  not  the  lips  a 
man  would  feel  much  inclination  to  kiss — she 
was  in  so  great  need  of  love,  the  chances  were 
she  would  never  get  it.  He  felt  a  great  pity 
for  her :  a  woman,  he  told  himself,  is  not  a 
woman  unless  she  is  loved — she  remains  a 
half-finished  sketch  of  something  she  might 
be.  Then  Jess  looked  across  at  him  and 
smiled, — her  smile  raised  the  veil  between 
herself  and  him ;  for  a  brief  moment  he  saw 
sheer  down  into  her  heart,  and  all  that  he  saw 
was  beautiful.  He  had  a  sudden  sense  of 
nearness,  a  belief  that  he  had  known  this 
woman  elsewhere. 

"I  suppose  it  is  improbable,"  he  said,  "but 
I  have  a  strange  feeling  that  we  have  met 
before." 

"  Most  improbable,"  she  answered ;  "  I 
have  not  been  in  England  since  I  was  a 
child." 


"  But  it  is  long  ago  that  I  seem  to  remem 
ber  you." 

"  Ah !  "  she  exclaimed  slowly,  as  some 
vague  recollection  began  to  take  shape  in  her 
mind. 

"  Do  you  know  Devonshire  ?  "  he  asked, 
with  sudden  quick  glimmer  of  facts. 

"Yes,  but  we  lived  in  an  out-of-the-way 
part.  Gorston  was  the  nearest  place,  and  it 
was  hardly  within  driving  distance." 

"  It  was  there  I  must  have  met  you.  Old 
Fronde  Gorston  is  my  uncle  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

Then  she  remembered,  and  put  out  her  hand 
with  an  instinctive  movement  as  if  to  push 
the  subject  from  her ;  but  he,  unconscious  of 
her  distaste,  continued :  "  I  used  to  spend  my 
holidays  at  Gorston.  Very  good  trout-fishing 
in  some  of  those  streams,  at  least  I  thought  so 
in  my  boyish  days.  Why,  it  was  trout-fish 
ing,  arid  you  must  have  been — but  you 
weren't  lame."  He  stopped,  and  his  face 
suddenly  blanched.  "  Great  Heavens  ! "  he 
exclaimed;  "it  wasn't  that  jump,  the  jump 
from  the  rock  that  I  made  you  take,  that 
caused  your  lameness  ?  " 

"  Of  course   not,"  she   answered,   hastily. 


180  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"  You  had  nothing  to  do  with  it."  A  sudden 
conviction  came  to  him  that  she  was  not 
speaking  the  truth. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  harsh 
voice. 

"  Why  talk  about  it  ?  "  she  replied,  gently. 
"Tell  me  about  yourself.  How  strange  that 
you  should  have  recognised  me  after  all  these 
years  !  " 

"  Then  I  am  responsible,"  he  said.  It  was 
horrible  to  him  to  be  the  indirect  cause  of 
suffering  to  any  one. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered.  "  I  should  have 
jumped  whether  you  had  been  there  or  not: 
the  rock  always  had  a  fascination  for  me.  Be 
sides,"  she  continued,  trying  to  turn  his  atten 
tion  from  the  subject,  "  it  was  the  little  book 
that  I  wanted.  I  remember  in  those  days  I 
had  a  ridiculous  belief  that  in  some  book  lay 
the  secret  of  how  to  escape  from  unhappiness 
— though  I  am  afraid  that,  as  far  as  I  am  con 
cerned,  the  secret  has  remained  unanswered." 

He  was  full  of  bitter  self-accusation.  "  I 
went  back  to  school  the  next  day  and  thought 
it  was  only  a  sprain.  How  could  I  have  been 
such  a  fool !  "  he  said. 


THE   HED-II AIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  181 

"Why  should  you  have  thought  other 
wise  ?  "  she  replied.  "  Do  you  remember  how 
good  you  were  to  me  ?  You  carried  me  almost 
all  the  way  home.  You  were  strong  even  in 
those  days," — she  smiled  at  the  involuntary 
recollection  of  him  that  rose  before  her,  a 
lanky,  grotesque,  red-haired  boy,  but  infi 
nitely,  awkwardly  gentle. 

"  And  I  have  spoilt  your  life,"  he  said. 

"  Do  you  never  learn  to  judge  things  with 
reasonable  common-sense?"  she  answered, 
with  a  touch  of  impatience.  "  Besides,  lame 
ness  is  not  the  same  trial  to  a  woman  as  it  is 
to  a  man." 

"But  still  it  is  lameness,"  he  inter 
rupted. 

She  rose  from  her  chair,  and  drew  closer  to 
him.  "  Do  you  think  it  has  not  also  had  its 
good  side  ?  "  she  said.  "  Do  you  think  it  has 
not  been  the  cause  of  a  hundred  little  acts  of 
kindness  which,  otherwise,  I  should  have  gone 
without  ?  People  are  not  ungenerous ;  but 
they  are  in  a  hurry.  Well,  this  lameness, 
which  you  think  so  terrible,  has  made  them 
stop  and  ask  themselves  if  they  could  do 
something  for  me.  I  have  noticed  it  over 


182          THE  RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

and  over  again ;  my  childhood  was  solitary 
enough — I  do  not  suppose  that  any  one  cared 
for  me  unless  it  was  Nanny,  my  old  nurse  ; 
but  I  know  she  never  loved  me  before  my 
accident  as  she  did  afterwards.  Don't  you 
think,"  and  she  stopped  a  moment  and  smiled 
at  him, — "don't  you  think,"  she  continued, 
"  that  a  little  love  is  worth  a  lot  of  lameness  ? 
because  if  you  don't,  I  do."  She  put  out  her 
hand ;  he  grasped  it  in  his  big,  strong  fingers, 
and  the  boyish  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  She 
saw  them,  but  pretended  not  to  notice,  talk 
ing  on  to  avoid  silence. 

"Poor  Nanny,"  she  said;  "I  don't  think 
she  ever  got  over  my  being  sent  to  school  in 
Germany.  <  A  'eathen  land,'  she  called  it,  <  a 
'eathen  land.'  I  believe  she  thought  it  was 
inhabited  by  blacks.  She  always  wrote  on 
my  birthday  and  sent  me  a  card.  Her  letters 
were  rather  hard  to  read,  because  each  word 
began  with  a  capital,  and  she  had  a  confused 
notion  as  to  the  difference  between  y's,  1's,  and 
g's,  but  they  were  the  only  letters  I  ever  re 
ceived.  I  don't  think  I  cared  very  much 
whether  I  could  read  them  or  not.  The  card 
too  was  always  the  same;  it  represented  a 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  183 

long  pinkish  hand  holding  a  cabbage-shaped 
purple  rose.  Somehow,  the  fact  that  it  was 
always  the  same  comforted  me.  I  knew,  too, 
where  she  had  bought  it,  and  I  used  to  lie 
awake  at  night  and  picture  her  going  into  the 
small  shop  at  the  end  of  the  village.  It  was 
kept  by  an  old  woman  named  Rogers,  who 
had  never  had  any  teeth.  She  sold  a  thin, 
flat  sort  of  gingerbread  that  the  poor  people 
called  '  fairin,'  and  if  you  spent  more  than 
f  ourpence,  she  would  open  her  mouth  and  tap 
her  gums  with  a  long  wooden  spoon  that  she 
used  to  ladle  out  her  brown  sugar.  *  'Ard  ez 
horn,'  she  would  say,  l  'ard  ez  horn.'  Nanny 
is  dead  now :  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  did 
much  to  make  her  life  happy ;  but  the  only 
moments  in  my  childhood  I  care  to  look  back 
on  I  owe  to  her." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  the  bitter 
ness  left  her  face. 

"  Don't  worry  over  that  stupid  episode,"  she 
said.  "  We  were  both  children,  and  I  am  a 
strong  believer  in  Fate." 

"  Fate,"  he  repeated ;  "  that  is  a  paralysing 
belief — have  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Each  forms  his  theory  on  his  own  experi- 


184  TPIE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

ence,"  she  answered,  "  and  mine  has  made  me 
pessimistic." 

"  We  have  always  the  Future,"  he  said.  "  I 
am  glad  that  we  have  met  again." 

"  Ah ! "  she  answered,  "  I  am  wiser  than 
you — I  always  wait  to  be  glad." 

His  face  contracted.  "  Your  theory  is  all 
wrong,"  he  said.  "En joy  the  minutes;  the 
long  hours  will  take  care  of  themselves." 

She  saw  that  he  was  hurt.  "  We  won't 
bother  about  the  theory  this  time,"  she  ex 
claimed,  with  quick  compunction. 

He  smiled.  "No,"  he  said,  "we  won't 
bother  about  the  theory,  and  we  will  make  a 
little  grab  at  happiness.  Is  it  a  pact  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  returning  the  smile,  "  it 
is  a  pact." 

CHAPTER  IV 

"THE  pig  has  arrived,  come  and  see  it," 
cried  Koch  a  few  days  later,  bursting  into 
Jess's  room.  "  It  is  very  small,  and  has  two 
crinkles  in  its  tail.  But  first  put  on  your 
hat,  because  the  Red-haired  Man  has  found 
you  a  mule,  and  we  are  all  going  to  pick 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  185 

white  heather  on  the  hills.  There,"  she 
added  a  moment  later,  when  Jess  limped 
down  the  steps,  u  there  it  is,"  pointing  at  a 
little  black  object  that  was  struggling  vio 
lently  in  a  peasant  woman's  arms. 

"  I  have  paid  three  paoli  more  for  its  man 
ners,"  she  continued,  in  a  triumphant  voice ; 
"  I  shall  call  it  Felice.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  a 
very  happy  little  pig." 

"  The  Signorina  is  fond  of  bacon,"  said  the 
peasant  woman,  sympathetically. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Koch. 

"  What  did  she  say  ?  "  Jess  asked. 

"  She  talks  patois,"  Roch  explained  hur 
riedly  ;  "  I  couldn't  translate  it." 

"  Ah  ! "  the  woman  continued,  "  it  comes 
from  a  well-favoured  stock,  does  that  pig. 
It  was  only  on  the  day  of  the  blessed  St. 
Joseph  that  I  salted  down  its  own  brothers, 
and  if  the  Signorina  pleases,  I  will  bring  her 
a  spare  rib  that  she  may  taste  it  herself." 

"  What  a  horrid  woman,"  exclaimed  Koch, 
growing  crimson. 

"  Please  tell  her  to  put  the  pig  down  and 
tie  a  string  round  its  leg,"  she  continued, 
turning  to  the  Red-haired  Man,  who  joined 


186  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

them  at  this  moment.  "  I  will  go  on ;  I  am 
sure  that  Felice  needs  exercise ;  Jess,  you  can 
easily  catch  me  up  on  the  mule." 

No  sooner  did  the  pig  regain  terra  firma 
than  it  clattered  grunting  and  squealing  down 
the  path,  Roch,  in  the  rear,  holding  tight  to 
the  string,  with  a  breathless  energy  worthy 
of  a  better  cause.  The  woman  watched  them 
in  astonished  despair. 

"  Madonna  mia  !  "  she  exclaimed,  wringing 
her  hands,  "  but  the  Signorina's  pig  will  never 
grow  fat." 

Jess  and  the  Red-haired  Man  followed  more 
slowly  with  the  mule.  She  glanced  down  at 
his  big  form  as  he  strode  beside,  and  deftly 
prevented  the  overhanging  boughs  from 
touching  her,  and  was  conscious  of  a  curious 
subtle  pleasure  in  her  own  weakness.  The 
path  led  through  a  small  wood ;  descending 
precipitous  fashion,  it  turned  a  sudden  angle 
and  wound  round  the  hills,  where  the  wild 
thorn  bushes  thrust  their  shaggy  white  heads 
out  from  among  the  bracken.  Below,  in  the 
vfalley,  a  yellow-faced  stream  hustled  along, 
while  innumerable  rivulets  scrambled  over 
the  bare  grey  rocks,  leaving  a  glistening 


THE   KED-H  AIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  187 

track  as  if  the  stroll  of  some  Brobdingnagian 
snail  had  taken  him  past  that  way. 

It  was  very  pleasant  to  the  Red-haired  Man 
to  wait  upon  this  woman,  to  help  her  in  some 
small  way ;  his  pulses  beat  with  a  big  boyish 
happiness.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  flap  of 
the  saddle :  "  A  man  is  some  use  in  the  world 
when  he  can  protect  a  woman.  Why  don't 
you  need  more  protection  ? "  he  asked,  his 
mouth  expanding  into  one  of  its  gigantic 
smiles. 

She  was  so  unused  to  being  protected,  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears  at  the  thought.  When 
he  saw  the  tears  and  the  trembling  of  her 
lips,  the  strings  of  his  heart  vibrated  like  a 
resonant  chord. 

"Life  has  it's  good  things,"  he  said, 
"though  I  don't  believe  you  have  tasted 
them  yet." 

She  did  not  answer :  she  had  a  great  long 
ing  for  life's  good  things,  but  she  was  also 
afraid  of  them, — she  was  so  certain  that  hap 
piness  had  to  be  paid  for  with  tears.  In  the 
silence  the  mule's  hoofs  pattered  sharply  on 
the  rough  ground;  little  black  and  green 
lizards  scuttled  away  through  the  dried  grass, 


188  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

making  a  pretence  of  being  more  frightened 
than  in  truth  they  were.  A  sudden  bend  in 
the  road  brought  them  in  sight  of  Koch,  who 
was  hurrying  in  their  direction. 

"  Come  quickly,  please,"  she  cried.  "  There 
are  two  artists  asleep  under  a  rock.  Felice  is 
eating  up  their  sketch-books.  I  can't  get  her 
away,  and  the  fattest  artist  looks  as  if  he 
were  going  to  wake." 

The  Red-haired  Man  ran  off  in  the  direction 
in  which  she  pointed,  and  Roch,  having  placed 
the  responsibility  on  his  shoulders,  followed 
more  slowly  behind;  but,  hearing  excited 
voices,  she  climbed  a  neighbouring  rock  from 
which  she  could  obtain  an  advantageous  yet 
safe  view  of  the  situation. 

"  Potztausend  Donnerwetter !  "  cried  the  fat 
artist,  pointing  at  an  uninviting  clumped  up 
heap  upon  the  ground.  "  You  will  me  say 
dat  is  my  skedch-book, — dat  my  lofely 
drawings  \ " 

"H'mn  humph,  'pon  my  word,  h'nm 
humph,"  replied  the  Red-haired  Man.  "  It 
looks  uncommonly  as  if  it  might  be." 

At  this  moment  the  pig,  endeavouring  to 
escape,  ran  over  the  face  of  the  other  artist. 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  189 

"  Du  lieber  Himmel !  "  he  exclaimed,  jump 
ing  to  his  feet.  "  Was  geht  vor  ?  " 

"  Ach  !  it  is  a  f orreign  verdamnter  Schwein 
that  eats  our  things,"  the  fat  man  cried, 
wringing  his  hands. 

"  Was,"  replied  the  other,  "  the  picture  I 
did  make  of  the  lofely  Madchen.  Gott  be- 
wahre,  es  1st  nicht  wahr.  You  sir,  you  Eng- 
leesh  sgentleman,"  he  continued,  in  a  voice 
of  rising  anger,  as  the  full  extent  of  his  loss 
came  home  to  him — "  I  ask  you  how  came 
that  Schwein  here  to  be  ?  " 

"H'nm  humph,  most  unfortunate  occur 
rence,"  the  Red-haired  Man  said.  "Hang  it 
all,"  he  ended,  abruptly.  "  Confound  you 
and  the  pig  together." 

"  Confound  me  and  the  pee-ig,"  spluttered 
the  German,  choking  with  anger.  "  I  have, 
you  know  that  in  our  land  we  ask  for  such  to 
the  duel." 

"Pooh!"  said  the  Eed-haired  Man.    "Pooh !" 

"  Pooh !  "  repeated  the  artist,  fiercely, 
"  pooh  !  It  is  noding  to  do  with  pooh.  Ach, 
Engleeish  Meess,"  he  continued,  catching 
sight  of  Hoch,  "you  laugh?  Is  it  dat  I  do 
see  you  laugh  2  " 


190  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S  DREAM 

"  Oh,  no  ! "  exclaimed  Roch,  hurriedly, 
"oh,  no!" 

"  To  who  belongs  that  Schwein  ? "  inter 
posed  the  fat  German,  taking  out  his  note 
book.  "  How  calls  the  man  his  name  ?  " 

"  He  bought  it,"  cried  Roch,  pointing  at 
the  Red-haired  Man.  "  He's  responsible." 
Then  she  slithered  down  the  rock,  and,  run 
ning  up  to  Jess,  who  was  approaching  on  the 
mule — "  Fly,  fly,"  she  cried,  in  breathless  ex 
citement  ;  "  they  want  our  names." 

"  Were  they  very  angry  ?  "  Jess  asked,  as 
the  mule  ambled  down  a  little  side  path. 

"  Very,"  assented  Roch. 

"  It  must  have  been  awkward,"  pursued 
Jess.  "  Did  you  explain  how  it  happened  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  they  were  Germans." 

"  I  thought  you  spoke  German." 

Roch  did  not  answer.  "Here  comes  the 
Red-haired  Man,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Well,"  he  burst  out,  "if  all  girls  be 
have " 

"  How  unchivalrous  you  are,  abusing  wom 
en,"  Roch  interrupted.  "Men  always  com 
plain  that  women  nowadays  want  to  do  every 
thing  for  themselves.  I  am  sure  I  have  never 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  191 

wished  to  cany  my  own  parcels,  and  on  the 
very  first  opportunity  a  man  is  rude  to  me." 

"  Rude,"  he  repeated,  hotly.  "  I  don't  want 
to  be  rude ;  but  there  are  limits 

"  Where  is  Felice  ?  You  have  not  left  her 
behind  ?  "  she  cried,  turning  on  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  those  Germans  will 
have  made  her  into  a  sausage  by  now." 

"  Oh,  how  brutal  men  are !  "  Roch  ex 
claimed.  "My  poor  dear  little  Felice,"  and 
she  began  to  run  back  towards  the  big  rock 
with  quick,  wavy  steps,  that  seemed  to  re 
quire  a  great  deal  of  energy  for  the  small 
portion  of  ground  over  which  they  progressed. 
A  couple  of  strides,  and  the  Red-haired  Man 
had  caught  her  up. 

"Don't  bother,  I  will  get  your  pig,"  he 
said,  gruffly. 

"  I  can't  trust  you,"  she  sobbed,  "  you're 
too  mean." 

"  Why,  there  is  the  detestable  little  pig 
hunting  about  by  itself  in  the  bracken,"  he 
exclaimed,  with  some  relief.  "  Now,  do  sit 
down  and  I  will  catch  it  for  you." 

"Dear  Felice,"  said  Koch;  "don't  pinch 
her." 


192  THE   RED-HAIKED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"  As  if  I  should  pinch  a  pig,"  lie  answered 
indignantly,  striding  away.  But  it  was  one 
thing  to  promise  to  catch  Felice  and  quite 
another  to  do  it,  and  Roch,  whose  tears  were 
soon  dried,  burst  into  peals  of  laughter,  as 
she  watched  the  Red-haired  Man  pursuing 
the  pig  round  the  thorn  bushes  and  over  the 
slippery  grey  boulders.  Once,  when  Felice, 
hard  pressed,  ran  close  by,  her  mistress  made 
no  endeavour  to  catch,  but  instead  cheered 
her  back  into  the  fray. 

At  last  the  Red-haired  Man  returned  with 
Felice  grunting  protestations  under  his  arm. 

"  Just  look  at  my  coat,"  he  exclaimed,  in 
dignantly.  u  Torn  to  rags  !  " 

"  I  never  could  have  believed  a  pig  could 
run  so  far  and  keep  so  cool,"  said  Roch,  in  a 
surprised  voice.  "  Oh,  Jess,  there  you  are  ! " 
she  added,  as  the  latter  joined  them.  "  Do 
let  us  sit  down  and  enjoy  ourselves.  What 
a  pleasant  world  it  is  !  Whenever  I  see  a 
view  I  am  always  afraid  that  some  author 
will  come  by  and  describe  it.  Dear  Felice," 
she  continued,  glancing  in  apparent  admira 
tion  at  the  little  pig,  "how  pretty  you  are, 
and  how  happy  you  look!  Happiness  is 


THE  RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  193 

hereditary  in  our  family — none  of  us  can 
escape  it.  When  my  great-great-grandfather 
had  reached  some  marvellous  age,  he  said  he 
would  like  to  live  each  moment  of  his  life 
again.  I  believe  every  one  was  relieved  when 
he  didn't,  because  he  took  snuff.  There  was 
an  old  woman  in  our  village  who  took  snuff ; 
she  lived  to  be  a  hundred,  grew  fresh  hair, 
new  teeth,  and  died  before  she  could  use 
them.  They  put  on  her  tombstone — 

1  Her  grawed  a  fresh  load  o'  hair  on  the  tap  o'  her  head, 
But  before  she  could  comb  it,  by  Gosh  her  was  dead.' 

Only  the  clergyman,  '  old  Passon  Bellew,'  as 
the  villagers  called  him,  insisted  on  the  words 
being  erased,  so  they  just  wrote :  '  'Twas  the 
teeth  that  carried  her  off — "  Go  thou  and  do 
likewise." '  I  think  that  was  the  text.  I  often 
wonder  if  it  was  the  snuff  that  made  all  that 
happen.  I  borrowed  some  from  her  once  and 
gave  it  to  the  cat  during  prayers :  she  flew  up 
the  back  of  a  fat  little  bishop  who  was  staying 
with  us.  My  brothers  and  I  giggled  so  loud 
we  were  obliged  to  turn  it  into  an  Amen. 
Now  Jess,  when  you  look  like  that,  I  know 
you  are  concocting  ideals,  or  thinking  about 

13 


194  THE   RED-HAIKED   MAN'S   DKEAM 

right  and  wronger  other  disagreeable  things. 
I  never  can  understand  why  people  are  so 
anxious  to  know  what  is  right  when  it  is  so 
much  more  convenient  not  to.  Oh,  Felice 
has  eaten  up  all  the  chocolates  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  with  an  abrupt  change  of  subject. 
"  I  do  think  that  the  three  paoli  paid  extra 
for  her  manners  were  quite  thrown  away." 

In  the  general  commotion  that  ensued  the 
sun  sank :  for  a  while  the  mountains  glowed 
porphyry  red,  and  then  drew  a  veil  blue  as 
lapis-lazuli  across  their  none  too  modest  faces. 
The  valleys,  crammed  with  shadows,  lay 
crumpled  and  forlorn, — the  maid  in  the  nur 
sery  ballad,  who  was  tossed  by  a  cow,  could 
not  have  looked  more  disconsolate. 

Roch  bent  down  and  gave  Jess  a  suspicion 
of  a  kiss,  just  where  her  brown  hair  curled 
back  from  the  nape  of  her  neck, 

"  Dear  Jess,"  she  exclaimed,  lightly,  though 
there  was  a  sound  of  tears  in  her  voice,  "  how 
battered  you  will  be  when  you  reach  heaven ; 
but  then,  I  am  sure  you  will  get  there !  " 

The  Red-haired  Man's  eyes  rested  on  the 
two  girls,  but  it  was  only  Jess  that  he  saw. 
"  Yes,"  he  told  himself,  "  life  so  far  had  been 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  195 

hard    to  her,    but  it  should  not    always    be 
hard." 

Roch  glanced  at  him,  and  something  in  the 
expression  of  his  face  thrilled  her  strangely. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  NARROW  foot-track  leads  from  the  Albergo 
past  the  cemetery,  winding  round  the  hills 
above  Olevano.  Opposite,  oil  its  great 
pointed  mountain,  is  Rocca  di  Cava,  washed 
up  there  in  the  middle  ages  and  left  stranded, 
crimes  and  all,  while  the  centuries  strode 
on,  knocking  the  outside  world  into  other 
forms,  and  whispering  to  it  other  ideas. 
Along  this  path,  late  one  afternoon,  Jess 
limped  somewhat  wearily,  for  walking  was 
always  a  painful  exertion  to  her.  At  last 
an  old  broken  stump  offered  a  resting-place, 
and  sitting  down,  she  turned  to  look  at  the 
sun,  as  it  tossed  its  beams  at  the  clouds, 
and  they,  colouring  with  exertion,  cast  them 
in  their  turn,  in  great  flakes  of  orange,  gold, 
and  umber,  on  the  patient  sky.  Absorbed  in 
watching,  she  hardly  noticed  the  Red-haired 
Man  stood  beside  her,  and  yet  something 


196  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

that  stirred  within  him,  something  which 
had  drawn  all  the  dreaminess  out  of  his 
face,  troubled  her  unconsciously. 

A  stray  gleam  from  the  fast-setting  sun  fell 
on  him,  throwing  into  relief  his  muscular 
figure  and  the  strength  and  weakness  of  his 
face.  He  bent  down  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  arm. 

"Do  you  remember  once  telling  me,"  he 
said,  "  that  love  was  worth  a  great  deal  of 
lameness,  and  I " 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet.  "You,"  she 
interrupted,  "  you  pity  me,  and  I  am  not 
sure,"  her  voice  broke,  "that  I  am  altogether 
grateful." 

"  Who  is  talking  of  pity  ?  I  love  you,"  he 
exclaimed,  trying  to  draw  her  towards  him. 

She  shrank  back.  "  It  is  all  so  sudden," 
she  said,  helplessly. 

"  Does  that  make  you  afraid,"  he  asked, 
"  when  you  feel,  you  know,  that  it  is  true  ?  " 

She  loved  him,  but  the  intense  happiness 
that  his  love  would  bring  made  her  distrust 
its  existence. 

"  I  feel  nothing  except  that  you  are  de 
ceived,"  she  answered ;  then  a  sudden  fierce 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN5  8   DREAM  197 

despair  swept  away  her  self-control.  "  Oh,  I 
hate  pity  !  "  she  cried,  passionately.  "  Hate 
it !  hate  it !  " 

"  It  is  you  who  are  deceived,"  he  said. 
His  strong  arms  closed  round  her  and  drew 
her  straight  up  against  his  breast.  "We 
love  each  other,  and  you  are  mine,"  he  ended, 
his  voice  vibrating  with  a  resistless  rush  of 
feeling. 

She  broke  into  bitter,  tearless  sobs.  "It 
is  a  dream,"  she  said,  "a  desolate,  deceiving 
dream."  And  yet  she  knew  that,  dream  or 
no  dream,  it  was  too  strong  for  her — she  could 
not  fight  against  it.  But  the  Red-haired  Man 
had  no  fears.  He  raised  her  face,  which 
drooped  half  ashamed  against  his  breast,  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Men  do  not  sleep  so  soundly,  dear  one," 
he  answered.  "  When  you  have  trusted  your 
self  to  me," — a  passion  of  tenderness  shook 
him, — "  when  you  are  my  wife,  you  will  learn 
that  it  is  no  dream."  As  he  spoke  she  opened 
wide  her  heart  to  the  coming  joy  or  grief, 
she  knew  not  which  awaited  her. 

"Dearest,"  he  said,  "tell  me  that  you  are 
not  afraid.  Tell  me  that  you  are  glad." 


198  THE  EED-HAIKED   MAN'S  DREAM 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  whispered. 

A  wave  of  exultation  swept  over  him. 

"  And  it  is  worth  the  past  pain  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  fierce,  impatient  joy. 

"  It  is  worth  the  past  pain,"  she  repeated, 
softly. 

"  And  the  pain  of  the  future  ?  " 

She  drew  a  quick,  trembling  breath.  "That 
too  !  "  she  said.  Later  they  walked  on  :  the 
path  was  uneven, — she  leant  upon  his  arm. 

"  Jess  !  Jess  !  "  he  exclaimed,  turning  to 
her,  "tell  me  you  are  glad  that  you  are 
lame." 

She  smiled  through  her  tears.  "I  ain 
glad,"  she  answered,  "glad,  glad." 

"See,  "he  said,  "see  how  rough  the  path 
is — I  must  carry  you."  He  raised  her  in  his 
strong  arms.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  he  put 
her  gently  down. 

"  Dearest,"  he  said,  "  it  is  good  that  we  love 
each  other."  But  she,  trembling,  answered 
nothing. 

The  sun  sank,  and  the  stars  shot  out,  rather 
reluctantly.  "How  strange,"  said  Jess,  at 
last,  "  that  it  is  me  you  love  and  not  Koch." 

"  She  is  a  child,"  he  answered,  smiling. 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  199 

"  No,  she  is  not  a  child,"  Jess  said,  "  and 
she  is  very  beautiful." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  "  Is  she  ?  "  he 
answered,  indifferently.  "I  do  not  think  I 
have  ever  noticed  it.  I  believe  I  have  always 
been  looking  at  you." 


CHAPTER   VI 

OLEVANO  cannot  boast  of  many  woods,  but, 
strolling  along,  the  Red-haired  Man  had 
come  on  a  group  of  trees  gathered  round  a 
small  brown-faced  pool  that  lapped  in  their 
shadows  as  a  starved  cat  milk.  Near  it  was 
seated  Roch,  engaged  in  a  somewhat  heated 
controversy  with  her  little  black  pig  on  the 
subject  of  education. 

"  Now,  Felice,"  she  exclaimed,  "  what  ob 
jection  can  a  loyal,  intelligent  pig  have  to 
die  for  the  Queen  ?  " 

Felice  refused  to  state  her  reasons  in 
words,  but,  having  whisked  her  small,  curly 
tail,  made  a  frantic  endeavour  to  scuttle 
away.  The  effort,  however,  proved  unsuc 
cessful,  and  her  attention  was  once  more 
drawn  to  the  subject  in  question. 


200  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"  Oh,  Felice ! "  the  girl  remonstrated, 
"  when  it  is  not  only  dying,  but  chocolates 
afterwards  !  " 

At  the  mention  of  chocolates  the  little 
black  pig  cocked  up  one  ear,  and  appeared 
to  reconsider  the  question. 

"  When  you  look  like  that,"  cried  Roch, 
flinging  her  arms  round  Felice,  "  you  are  the 
very  dearest  little  pig  that  ever,  ever  was 
made.  And  I  tell  you  what,"  she  added, 
magnanimously,  "  we  will  eat  all  the  choco 
lates  up  ourselves,  and  not  bother  about  the 
Queen." 

In  the  silence  that  followed  the  proposi 
tion  a  chuckle  made  itself  heard,  and  Koch, 
glancing  round,  saw  the  Red-haired  Man  try 
ing  to  dodge  behind  a  tree. 

"  How  mean  you  are,  watching  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  angrily. 

The  Red-haired  Man  came  nearer,  and 
flung  himself  down  on  the  grass,  Felice  util 
ising  the  opportunity  to  scamper  off  and 
make  private  investigations  on  her  own  ac 
count. 

"  I  never  saw  a  more  intelligent  pig  in  my 
life,"  he  answered,  with  conviction.  Roch 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  201 

was  not  quite  sure  how  to  take  this  remark, 
so  she  changed  the  subject. 

"  Now,  while  I  remember  it,"  she  said, 
"  what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  My  name  ?  "  he  repeated  in  astonishment. 
"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  haven't 
learnt  that  yet?  Why,  what  do  you  call 
me?" 

"  Oh  !  "  she  exclaimed,  getting  a  little  red, 
"  that  is  quite  easy.  One  thinks  of  character 
istics." 

"  Characteristics  ?    What  characteristics  ? " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Think,"  he  repeated.  "  H'm,hum,  humph. 
I'm  tall." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  that  some 
how  had  the  effect  of  diminishing  his  height. 
"You're  tall." 

"  And  strong,"  he  said,  surveying  himself 
with  justifiable  pride. 

"  So  are  most  men,"  she  remarked,  sniffily. 

"  And  heavy,"  he  said,  interrupting  her. 

"  What  a  thing  to  boast  of !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  in  genuine  surprise. 

"  Bother  characteristics,"  he  said.  "  I  can't 
think  of  anything  else." 


202  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"Can't  you  really  guess?" — in  an  aston 
ished  voice. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"  Why,  what  do  you  think  made  the  bull 
run  at  you  the  other  day  ?  " 

"  The  bull  run  at  me?" 

"  Why,  what  colour  is  your  hair  ?  "  she 
said  in  desperation. 

"  The  same  colour  as  yours,  of  course." 

She  was  almost  too  astonished  for  speech. 
"  Oh,"  she  cried  at  last,  "  mine's  auburn  !  " 

"  Pouf  !  "  he  said  ;  "  I  see  no  difference." 

"Come,  and  look  for  yourself,"  she  ex 
claimed,  excitedly,  pulling  him  towards  the 
little  brown-faced  pool. 

They  both  knelt  down  in  front  of  it :  there 
was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Well,"  cried  Roch,  "  what  do  you  see  ?  " 

He  saw  a  small,  oval  face  ;  eyes  deeply 
blue,  peering  down,  full  of  anxiety,  at  the 
reflection  of  the  chestnut  hair  that  curled  out, 
glinting  with  gold,  and  scrambled  along  the 
edge  of  her  broad  white  forehead.  The  short 
nose,  tip-tilted,  delicate,  expressed  a  faint, 
questioning  surprise  ;  the  mouth  too  large  to 
be  small,  freshly,  childishly  red,  curved  back 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  203 

indignant,  only  the  dimple  that  had  been 
pressed  into  the  chin  was  content  in  its  own 
happiness,  and  refused  at  all  costs  to  express 
anything  but  pleasure.  His  eyes  rested  on 
her  face,  lingeringly,  then  they  followed  the 
lines  of  her  white  throat  till  they  rested  on 
the  soft  curves  that  proclaimed  her  woman. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  Eoch  again,  "  well  2  " 

No  answer. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  see  the  difference  ?  "  she 
exclaimed,  almost  in  tears. 

The  Red-haired  Man  raised  himself,  breath 
ing  heavily. 

"  What  colour  is  it  ?  "  '  she  cried,  wringing 
her  hands  with  impatience. 

He  looked  at  her  in  a  dazed,  dull  way,  as 
if  he  were  blind  as  well  as  dumb. 

"  Do  speak  !  "  she  cried,  catching  him  by 
the  coat.  "You  must — you  must  see  the 
difference." 

"The  difference,"  he  repeated,  in  a  far 
away  voice.  "  What  difference  ?  " 

"  Oh,  how  stupid  you  are  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
despairingly.  "  Is  my  hair  red  ?  " 

He  drew  a  deep  breath,  pulling  himself 
together.  "  Red  !  "  he  cried.  "  It  flames,  it 


204  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

glows — you  could  roast  an  ox  before  it !  " 
Then  he  turned  and  fled,  leaving  Roch  over 
whelmed  with  vexation  and  astonishment. 

"  He  must  be  mad  !  "  she  exclaimed.  She 
knelt  down  in  front  of  the  little  pool  and 
looked  at  herself.  "  He  must  be  mad  !  "  she 
repeated. 

She  glanced  again  at  the  pool.  "  Oh,  I  am 
sure  he's  mad  !  "  she  added,  in  a  more  satisfied 
voice.  She  took  another  little  glimpse  into 
the  pool.  "  There  isn't  the  least  doubt  he's 
mad  !  "  she  cried,  exultantly.  "  Oh  dear  !  " 
she  ended  in  a  voice  of  dismay,  her  eyes 
falling  on  a  crushed  box  beneath  the  tree, 
"  there  are  the  chocolates,  and  the  Red-haired 
Man  has  sat  upon  them  !  " 

High  up  on  the  hill  opposite  she  could  see 
the  Red-haired  Man  tearing  along  with  great, 
wide-paced  strides.  She  watched  him  a 
moment.  "He's  rough  and  gauche,"  she  ex 
claimed  ;  "  he's  not  a  bit  clever ;  he  has 
nothing  that  one  really  cares  for  or  expects 
to  find  in  a  man ;  he's  an  unlicked  cub — and 

yet "  she  stopped  short,  and.  returning  to 

the  pool,  knelt  down  once  more,  peering  again 
into  its  shadowy  waters.     "  It  would  be  very 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  205 

strange  if  he  should  be  the  first  man  who  did 
not  think  uie  beautiful,"  she  said  at  length. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  sun  beat  hotly  down  on  the  hills  round 
Olevano.  Roch  and  the  Red-haired  Man  had 
been  gathering  cyclamen,  and,  with  hands  and 
arms  full  of  flowers,  left  the  woods  and  sat 
down  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  rock.  Down 
the  rock's  face,  with  a  full-lunged  gurgle,  ran 
a  stream,  sending  up  a  shower  of  spray  which 
fell  in  beads  on  Roch's  hair,  making  it  crinkle 
up  like  a  baby's  tight-closed  fist.  Some 
distance  from  her  mistress  lay  Felice,  full  in 
the  sun,  emitting  from  time  to  time  a  short 
pleased  grunt  of  satisfaction  as  the  genial 
warmth  penetrated  her  black  skin.  The  Red- 
haired  Man  had  dropped  his  flowers  into 
Roch's  lap  and  flung  himself  down  at  her 
feet.  He  was  supremely  happy,  and  asked 
nothing  more  of  life  just  then  than  to  watch 
her  deft,  slim  fingers  rearranging  the  cycla 
men.  He  had  entered  into  that  state  of 
delight  which  at  the  same  time  arrests  the 
mind  and  forces  on  it  the  impression  that  the 


206  THE   EED-HAIKED   MAN'S   DREAM 

faculties  were  never  more  keenly  awake : 
he  was  certain  that  he  had  never  lived, 
never  come  into  full  possession  of  himself, 
till  that  moment.  Further  than  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  analyse:  possibly  it  may 
be  a  part  of  supreme  happiness  that  we 
have  neither  the  desire  nor  the  capacity  to 
analyse  it. 

The  soft  warm  air  blew  between  them.  She 
raised  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  him,  he  smiled 
back  at  her :  as  a  sensitive  plant  trembles  at 
the  far-off  tramp  of  horses,  their  hearts  thrilled 
at  the  unperceived  approach  of  love.  Neither 
had  any  thought  of  being  untrue  to  Jess. 
Unconsciously  they  had  stepped  out  of  the 
cold  land  of  thought  into  the  warm  land  of 
emotion ;  and  as  he  lay  and  watched  the  faint 
quiver  of  her  gown  above  her  bosom,  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  embraced  life  and  put  his  lips 
on  happiness.  Suddenly,  subtly  his  gaze  op 
pressed  her.  Springing  to  her  feet,  gather 
ing  the  cyclamen  together  with  both  hands, 
she  flung  them  full  in  his  face.  Shaking 
himself  free  from  the  flowers,  he  pursued  her. 
She  took  shelter  in  the  white  cloud  of  spray, 
he  following,  and  they  stood  there — the  water 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  207 

flashing  in  their  hair  and  eyes,  youth  in  their 
hearts.  High  up  on  the  mountain  the  great 
horned  cattle  lowed  to  each  other,  and  along 
the  steep  path  came  the  goats  towards  the 
stream  to  drink.  Roch  and  the  Red-haired 
Man,  looking  out  across  the  valley,  laughed 
for  sheer  joy  of  living. 

Unheeded  by  them,  clouds  had  begun  to 
mass  overhead ;  there  was  a  dull,  heavy  clang 
of  thunder ;  in  the  far  horizon  the  lightning 
worried  the  sky.  They  turned  and  began  to 
retrace  their  steps  towards  the  Albergo.  The 
rain  overtook  them,  and  they  found  shelter  at 
last  in  an  empty  reed- hut.  Before  the  door 
was  an  almond-tree  in  full  bloom ;  a  gust  of 
wind  tore  off  its  blossoms,  and  the  little  tree 
bowed  over  the  broken  petals  that  were  the 
spoils  of  its  own  beauty. 

Suddenly  the  sky  ripped  from  end  to  end, 
and  over  the  brink  a  sea  of  flame  rolled 
down  upon  the  mountain.  The  man  and 
woman  shrunk  together,  and  in  that  blaze 
of  light  they  read  their  own  hearts.  A  sense 
of  separation  fell  on  them  both.  In  silence 
they  went  out  into  the  storm  and  returned 
back  again  to  the  Albergo. 


208  THE  KED-HAIKED   MAN^S  DKEAM 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  sun  was  nearing  its  setting,  when,  some 
days  later,  the  Red-haired  Man,  with  Pico 
astride  on  his  shoulders,  made  his  way  along 
the  narrow  mountain-track.  He  walked 
rapidly  as  if  to  out-distance  his  thoughts ; 
the  tuneless,  wavering  whistle  of  the  shep 
herd's  pipes  beat  on  the  still  air, — but  he 
heard  no  sound  except  the  thud  of  his  own 
pulses.  He  did  not  even  glance  round  when 
a  herd  of  big  horned  cattle  swept  across  the 
path  at  a  lopping  gallop.  Only  Pico  crowed 
loudly  at  the  rush  of  their  hoofs,  at  the 
tossing  of  their  majestic  heads. 

At  last  he  stopped,  and,  having  found  a 
soft  green  spot  between  the  bracken  for  Pico, 
flung  himself  down  beside  him.  But  the 
baby  crawled  up  to  his  accustomed  place 
on  the  broad  chest,  and,  stretching  out  his 
little  fat  legs,  doubling  his  fist,  beat  a  loud 
tattoo,  wishing  perhaps  to  awaken  the  Red- 
haired  Man,  who  lay  and  stared  dully  into 
the  sky,  oblivious  to  the  wants  of  his  small 
friend. 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  209 

"  Ah,  Pico,  old  man  !  "  he  said,  as  if  in 
response  to  the  thumps,  "  never  try  and  set 
the  world  to  rights.  It  doesn't  pay,  old 
man — it  doesn't  pay." 

The  baby  crowed  derisively.  In  his  eyes 
the  world  was  a  very  fine  place  indeed,  and 
needed  no  setting  to  rights. 

"  Pico,"  continued  the  Red-haired  Man, 
"  I  suppose  it  never  happened  to  you  not  to 
know  your  own  mind — not  even  when  you 
cried  for  the  moon  ?  " 

The  baby  snatched  at  a  belated  butterfly, 
paying  no  heed  to  such  trivial  questions. 

"  Pico,  Pico,"  said  the  man,  taking  the 
baby's  two  little  fat  fists  in  one  of  his  great 
hands,  "let  us  talk  things  out.  Truth  is 
the  very  devil  when  we  run  away  from  it. 
You  see,  Pico,"  he  continued,  "it  was  like 
this.  There  was  a  woman " 

The  baby  pulled  his  hands  free  and  turned 
his  back  at  the  mention  of  woman. 

"  You've  a  lot  to  learn  yet,  Pico,"  the  Red- 
haired  Man  remonstrated, — "  a  lot  to  learn. 
Woman  isn't  quite  a  nonentity  in  this  world, 
Pico — she's  very  much  alive.  Now,  this  one 
I  was  telling  you  about — life  has  been  hard 

14  " 


210  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAlSf's   DREAM 

down  on  her  from  the  first,  but  she  had 
plenty  of  pluck  :  she  put  her  back  up  against 
the  wall  and  faced  it,  till  I  came  along  and 
mulled  everything.  A  man  doesn't  like  to 
see  a  woman  facing  things  too  much,  Pico ; 
he  wants  to  stand  up  beside  her  and  hit  out. 
You  don't  understand  now,  old  fellow,  but 
you  will  understand  right  enough  by  and  by. 
Well,  that's  how  I  felt,  only  I  thought  there 
was  something  more.  It  doesn't  matter  what 

I  thought,  because,  because "  he  stopped 

short,  and  the  baby  crowed  and  thumped  his 
friend's  broad  chest  to  emphasise  approval  of 
the  story. 

"  It  was  a  dream,"  continued  the  Red- 
haired  Man, — u  a  damned  dream,"  he  ended 
with  a  sob. 

But  Pico's  dream  at  that  moment  was  to 
catch  a  big  green  beetle,  so  he  crawled  away 
on  his  own  account  and  the  man  flung  him 
self  on  his  face.  "  Dreams  are  hell,"  he  cried 
bitterly,  "  dreams  are  hell." 


THE  RED-HAIKED   MAN'S   DREAM  211 


CHAPTER  IX 

ON  his  way  back  to  the  Albergo  the  Ked- 
haired  Man  met  Jess.  She  was  seated  on  a 
broken  tree  stump,  near  the  spot  where  he 
had  first  told  her  of  his  love,  and  below  him 
wound  the  stony  path  over  which  he  had 
carried  her.  His  thoughts  were  full  of  that 
scene ;  he  seemed  to  hear  his  own  voice  re 
peating — "  Tell  me  you  are  glad  that  you  are 
lame,"  and  her  answer,  "  I  am  glad,  glad  !  " 
Looking  at  her,  remembering  all  the  love  he 
had  promised,  of  which  he  had  now  none  left 
to  give,  nothing  but  the  pity  that  she  so 
despised,  his  heart  ached  for  her  and  himself. 
She  had  been  waiting  for  him,  and  when  he 
stopped  in  front  of  her,  and  raised  a  troubled 
face  to  his,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had 
some  dim  prescience  of  the  truth.  He  shud 
dered  to  think  of  the  suffering  such  know' 
edge  would  entail  on  her  sensitive  proud 
nature,  and  told  himself  that,  at  all  costs,  it 
should  be  kept  from  her.  Yet,  with  the  in 
consistency  of  weakness,  he  felt  irritated  at 
the  greatness  of  her  need  of  him,  at  her 


212  THE   KED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

weakness,  at  her  love.  "  Why,"  he  asked  him 
self,  "  did  she  come  to  meet  me  ?  "  Will  she 
always  make  a  parade  of  her  love  in  this 
fashion  ? " 

She  scanned  his  face  anxiously,  trying  to 
interpret  each  change  of  expression.  Her 
scrutiny  irritated  him  further — he  turned 
away  to  hide  his  annoyance.  A  quick  pang 
shot  through  her ;  she  caught  his  hands. 
"  Have  I  vexed  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Vexed  !  No,"  he  answered,  still  keeping 
his  face  averted. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  pressed.  "  I  feel  there 
is  something  between  us." 

"  Aren't  you  just  a  little  difficult  to 
please  ?  "  he  replied.  The  tone  of  his  voice, 
not  the  words,  hurt  her.  His  love  meant  so 
much  to  her :  but  she  had  learnt  to  believe 
in  it  lately ;  yet  she  had  a  sudden  keen  long 
ing  to  reassure  herself  of  its  reality. 

u  It  isn't  that  you  love  me  any  less  ? "  she 
asked.  Her  voice  trembled,  and  something 
in  the  tone  of  it  went  straight  to  the  man's 
heart.  He  turned  to  her,  took  both  her 
hands  in  his  own.  "  I  care  for  you  more  than 
you  think,  Jess,"  he  said,  "  and,  perhaps,"  he 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  213 

added  under  his  breath,  "  more  than  I  myself 
know."  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  she  drew 
close  to  him  and  hid  her  face  against  his 
breast. 

"  Your  love  is  so  much  to  me,"  she  sobbed. 
"  At  first  I  couldn't  believe  that  you  loved 
me,  I  seemed  so  different  from  the  kind  of 
women  men  love ;  and  now,  if  you  took  your 
love  back,  I  would  bear  it,  because  it  would 
be  you  who  willed  it  back, — but  oh,  it  would 
be  hard,  hard,  hard." 

He  caressed  her  hair,  and  his  voice  shook 
with  contrition.  She  fell  to  sobbing,  as  a 
child  cries,  short,  broken,  full-throated  sobs, 
and  he  stroked  her  hair  with  his  big  awkward 
fingers ;  but  the  nearness  of  her  bosom  to  his 
gave  him  no  thrill,  and  he  comforted  her 
coldly.  Then  Pico,  who  from  his  perch  on  the 
man's  shoulders  had  peered  down  curiously 
at  the  weeping  woman,  set  up  a  sudden  odd 
little  wail  on  his  own  account,  and  Jess,  rais 
ing  her  face,  held  out  her  arms  to  the  child. 
A  subtle  displeasure  entered  the  man's  heart 
— he  drew  back. 

"  Let  me  have  him,"  she  pleaded. 

"  No,  no,  he  is  too  heavy  for  you." 


214  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"  Ob,  give  him  to  me  !  "  She  stretched  out 
her  hands  towards  the  child,  as  if  she  was 
stretching  out  her  hands  towards  motherhood. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said,  fiercely.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  if  she  touched  the  child  it  would  be 
sacrilege. 

"  Oh,  give  him  to  me  !  "  she  cried  again ; 
"the  touch  of  his  little  hands  would  make 
our  love  seem  less  like  a  dream." 

"  Life  is  too  real  for  dreams,"  he  said,  in  a 
harsh,  grating  voice.  He  walked  on  towards 
the  village,  she  limped  after  him ;  but  each 
step  he  took  made  the  distance  between  them 
greater. 

She  saw  him  give  the  child  to  its  mother, 
and  Pico  borne  into  the  house  and  the  door 
closed.  The  Red-haired  Man  did  not  turn 
back  to  her,  but  strode  off  down  the  road. 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  It  is 
a  dream,  a  dream,"  she  cried,  bitterly ;  "  he  is 
beginning  to  awake." 

And  yet  she  could  not  believe  it  was  a 
dream,  even  though  she  said  it  with  her  lips. 


THE   KED-UAIKEB    MAN'S   DREAM  215 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  villagers  were  returning  from  their  day's 
work  in  the  fields  as  the  Red-haired  Man 
harried  down  the  long  grey  road.  He  met 
groups  of  girls  and  lads  chatting  and  laugh 
ing  ;  a  man  on  a  mule  ambled  by,  clasping  in 
front  of  him  a  small  child,  while  a  boy  perched 
behind  the  saddle  gripped  him  tightly  round 
the  waist.  Trudging  after  him  came  a  woman, 
bearing  in  the  basket  on  her  head,  which  she 
steadied  with  one  hand,  her  baby,  who  gazed 
out  on  the  world  in  proud  security  of  posi 
tion.  Through  the  little  procession  there  ran 
the  thread  of  natural  human  affection, — the 
affection  that  the  Red-haired  Man  felt  that 
he,  with  his  own  hands,  was  tearing  out  from 
the  woof  of  his  life.  His  heart  swelled  and 
protested  bitterly  against  the  sacrifice  ;  the 
sight  of  the  groups  of  peasants  became  hate 
ful  to  him  ;  he  broke  away  from  them,  jumped 
the  hedge,  and  climbed  up  through  an  olive 
orchard  towards  the  brow  of  the  hill.  When 
the  trees  hid  him  from  sight  he  stopped,  and 
putting  his  hands  on  a  branch  rested  his  face 


216  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

upon  them.  All  day  thought  on  thought  had 
jarred  one  against  the  other  in  his  rnind  ;  now 
his  mind  was  empty  of  thought — his  brain 
and  heart  had  room  for  nothing  but  pain.  The 
sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead.  "  For  my 
whole  life — for  my  whole  life,"  he  muttered 

— "  I  can't,  I  can't "  His  agony  drove  him 

from  the  spot,  and,  hurrying  through  the 
orchard,  he  came  to  the  farm-house.  On  the 
doorstep  a  woman  sat  nursing  her  child :  for 
a  moment  he  stood  staring  at  her  with  so 
strange  an  expression  on  his  face  that  the 
woman  crossed  herself  involuntarily.  Burst 
ing  into  a  wild,  miserable  laugh,  he  rushed 
on :  suddenly  he  saw  Koch  in  front  of  him. 
She  was  standing  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
looking  out  across  the  valley.  He  came  and 
stood  beside  her  :  neither  of  them  spoke ;  but 
the  nearness  of  her  presence  quieted  him,  and 
thought  began  once  more  to  flow  in  his  brain. 
At  last,  as  if  by  one  accord,  they  turned  and 
looked  at  each  other :  he  saw  that  her  face 
was  no  longer  that  of  a  child,  but  of  a 
woman, — and  when  he  marked  the  change,  so 
much  the  more  passionate  became  his  need  of 
her.  Pie  drew  closer.  "  Come  away  with 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  217 

me,"  he  said ;  "  there  is  nothing  in  the  whole 
world  beside  our  love." 

Despair  swept  down  upon  her :  it  was  all 
so  strange,  sudden,  terrible, — she  was  so  un 
accustomed  to  facing  the  stern  realities  of 
life.  Involuntarily  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his, 
seeking  help ;  but  manliness  had  forsaken 
him.  He  laid  his  hands  upon  her  breast :  the 
touch  of  his  hands  burnt  her  like  fire ;  but  her 
bosom  was  to  him  womanhood,  and  the  soft, 
fresh  joys  of  the  bridal  night. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  come,  my  beloved,  you 
are  mine  ;  do  I  not  possess  you  already  ?  "  and 
his  hands  slipped  from  her  breast  to  her  waist 
and  soft  rounded  hips. 

She  sprang  back,  and  stood  trembling  like 
a  tall  flame.  Many  moments  went  by — his 
passionate  need  of  her  rose  in  rebellion,  pro 
testing  at  her  coldness.  With  a  half  articu 
late  curse,  he  turned  and  left  her. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THAT  evening  the  Red-haired  Man  did  not 

return    to    the  Albergo.     When  night  fell 

Jess  sat  in  the  loggia  waiting  for  him.  At 


218  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

tbe  little  shrine  below  Mad  Gentia  had  lit 
her  candles  in  honour  of  the  Madonna,  and 
in  mute  appeal  to  her  pity  ;  for  Mad  Gentia's 
lover  had  lingered  long  far  out  at  sea,  and 
the  Blessed  Mother  of  Christ  remembering 
this  might  hasten  his  return.  Jess's  heart 
filled  with  pity,  for  she  knew,  as  did  all  but 
the  mad  woman,  that  the  lover  was  drowned, 
and  would  not  return  till  the  sea  gave  up 
its  dead.  The  candles  burnt  bravely,  but 
Gentia  turned  away,  her  heart  beating  high 
with  hope ;  then  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  blew 
them  out:  but,  after  all,  the  man  was  drowned, 
and  even  the  Mother  of  God  could  not  bring 
a  dead  man  to  life.  Still,  be  that  as  it  may, 
Jess  rose  from  her  seat,  and,  limping  painfully 
down  the  village  steps,  relit  the  candles. 
Late  that  night,  when  the  doors  of  the  Al- 
bergo  were  fast  shut  and  the  Padrona  and 
her  sons  lay  snoring  heavily,  Jess  crept  into 
Roch's  room.  She  shook  her  friend  by  the 
shoulder:  "He  has  not  come  back,"  she  said. 
"  Why  do  you  think  he  has  not  come  back  ?  " 
Koch  made  no  answer;  and  Jess,  thinking 
that  she  slept,  left  her.  The  days  lengthened 
into  weeks,  and  the  Red-haired  Man  did  not 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM  219 

return.  Every  night  fresh  candles  burnt  be 
fore  the  little  shrine  :  the  villagers  wondered 
openly  where  Mad  Gentia  got  the  money  to 
buy  so  many  candles,  but  Jess,  sitting  watch 
ing  the  spear-shaped  flames,  murmured  to 
herself,  "  Who  knows,  he  may  come  back  to 
night."  At  first  Koch  thought  of  the  Red- 
haired  Man's  return  with  horror,  then  to  the 
horror  was  added  a  great  longing  to  see  his 
face. 

Jess  had  never  spoken  much  to  Koch  about 
the  Red-haired  Man,  but  now  it  seemed  that 
her  heart  was  overburdened  with  words,  and 
she  was  unwearied  in  telling  of  her  faith  in 
him  and  of  his  unshakeable  fidelity  :  some 
times  her  voice  clanged  hard  like  steel,  some 
times  it  shook  with  tears,  but  the  theme  of 
her  talk  in  each  case  was  the  same, — for  it 
was  not  Roch  whom  she  worked  to  convince, 
but  herself.  Neither  did  Roch's  feeling  in 
listening  vary,  nor  did  she  cease  to  shudder 
at  each  recurring  of  the  word  "  faith." 

One  evening  Roch  sat  upon  her  bed  :  her 
chestnut  hair,  unwound,  looked  like  rusted 
gold  against  her  white  nightgown ;  her  small 
feet,  crossed  and  pink,  pressed  the  floor.  Jess 


220  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

stood    at    the   window,    staring    across   the 
shadow-wrapt  village  at  the  little  shrine. 

"The  candles  have  gone  out,"  she  ex 
claimed,  suddenly. 

"  What  candles  ?  " 
i     "MadGentia's " 

"  Poor  Gentia ;  but  the  man  is  dead." 

"  He  is  not  dead,"  Jess  answered,  in  a 
dreamy  voice. 

"  Not  dead  ?     How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  explain :  Gentia  knows;  I  know, 
— we  feel  it.  You  could  not  understand, 

Roch,  because "  she  stopped  short,  and 

then  added  gently,  "  When  women  love  they 
learn  these  things." 

Roch  shivered.  "  Love  is  full  of  pain  and 
horror,"  she  said. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  replied  Jess,  putting  out  her 
hands  protestingly ;  "  love  is  most  beauti 
ful."  She  was  silent  a  moment,  and  the 
white  moonlight  fell  on  her  white  face  and 
figure, — her  hair  hung  about  her,  soft  like 
shadows. 

"  Listen,  Roch,"  she  said;  "long  ago,  when 
you  first  knew  me,  I  was  hard,  believed  in 
no  one :  then  I  met  him,  and  he  loved  me," — 


THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DKEAM  221 

she  was  silent  a  moment.  "  I  know,"  she  con 
tinued,  in  a  soft,  hushed  voice,  "  you  think 
that  he  will  not  come  back  to  me,  but,  oh,  I 
am  not  afraid." 

Roch  flung  herself  face  downwards  on  the 
bed,  and  answered  nothing. 

All  that  night  Eoch  lay  awake:  she  did 
not  think,  only  suffered.  The  day  dawned, 
throwing  white,  then  pale  yellow,  tints  upon 
the  sky;  but  the  earth  beneath  the  mists 
slept  heavily.  A  fresh  coolness  fell  upon 
everything,  and  the  bracken-covered  hills 
dripped  dew.  Faint,  shuffling  noises  made 
themselves  heard,  and  one  startled  lark  rose 
straight  upward,  poising  for  a  while  on  lev 
elled  wings,  then  sinking  back  songless  to 
earth.  Eastward,  from  behind  a  deeply  dip 
ping  mountain,  the  sun,  slowly  at  first,  and 
then  with  a  great  smooth  sweep,  took  its  place 
above  the  horizon.  The  goatherds  unfastened 
the  pens,  and  the  goats  leapt  and  butted  down 
the  steep  mountain  paths.  Olevano  itself 
awoke ;  men,  women,  and  children  came  out 
into  the  streets,  singly  at  first,  then  in  groups ; 
the  copper  cans  clanged  at  the  well,  and  the 


232  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

lichen-stained  houses  echoed  back  the  patter 
of  the  unshod  feet  of  mules.  After  a  while 
Koch  rose,  dressed  herself,  and  went  out.  It 
was  her  last  day  in  Olevano :  she  was  to  leave 
by  the  early  diligence,  and  join  her  mother  in 
Rome, — Jess  had  refused  to  leave  Olevano. 

At  the  corner  of  the  street  she  saw  Pico : 
taking  him  from  his  mother,  she  carried  him 
in  her  arms  up  the  narrow  winding  paths  that 
led  away  from  the  village  out  on  to  the  hills. 
She  came  at  last  to  the  small  pool  in  whose 
writers  the  Red- haired  Man  had  first  seen  her 
beauty :  beside  the  pool  the  Red-haired  Man 
lay  asleep.  Roch  stood  watching  him, — his 
face  was  worn  with  much  suffering.  The 
freshness  of  the  morning  stirred  Pico's  heart, 
— he  crowed  loudly.  The  Red-haired  Man 
moved  in  his  sleep,  woke,  saw  Roch  with  the 
baby  pressed  close  against  her  breast,  and 
thought  that  he  dreamed  ;  but  Pico  struggled 
down  from  the  girl's  arms,  crawled  away, 
chuckling  loudly,  for  he  had  been  awake  an 
hour  or  more. 

On  the  loose  stones  of  the  mountain  path 
there  was  the  sound  of  a  slow,  halting  tread: 
as  it  fell  on  the  man's  ears  he  awoke  hur- 


THE   RED-HAIRED    MAN'S   DREAM  223 

riedly,  and  fell  back  behind  the;  shelter  of 
the  trees.  At  the  bend  of  the  hill  above 
Jess  limped  slowly  into  sight.  He  felt  no 
surprise  ;  it  was  as  if  he  had  been  waiting 
for  her.  Each  halting  step  that  she  took 
forward  entered  his  heart  like  a  knife.  For 
a  while  Jess  stood  looking  at  the  broken 
path  ;  then  it  seemed  that  her  courage  failed 
her,  and,  turning,  she  went  back  the  way  she 
had  come.  The  echo  of  her  footsteps  died  ; 
Eoch  and  the  Bed-haired  Man  stood  and 
stared  each  into  the  other's  white  face. 

"  She  must  never  know,"  they  stuttered 
hoarsely,  "  she  must  never  learn  the  truth." 

A  great  haste  to  be  away  came  to  the  man 
— a  great  fear  lingering. 

"  I  will  go  to  her,"  he  said  ;  "  but  you — 
we  must  never  meet  again." 

"No,"  Koch  answered,  dully,  "we  must 
never  meet  again." 

"The  diligence— you  can  leave  Olevano 
to-day." 

His  haste  bruised  her  like  stones.     "  Yes, 
I  leave  Olevano  to-day." 
"  You  must  never  write." 
"  No,  I  must  never  write." 


224  THE   RED-HAIRED   MAN'S   DREAM 

"And  if  we  meet  you  in  the  street  you 
must  not  know  us." 

"  If  I  meet  you  in  the  street  I  must  not 
know  you." 

"  Swear  !  "  he  said,  turning  from  her. 

"  I  swear." 

Then  he  fled  hurriedly,  and  she,  raising 
Pico  in  her  arms,  pressed  the  baby  close  up 
against  her  breast — for  upon  her  there  was  a 
lust  of  motherhood. 


THE    STONE    PINE 


15 


THE    STONE    PINE 

rjlHEY  dwelt  beside  the  mulberry-shadowed 
Mediterranean,  and  were  goatherds:  he, 
a  bare-legged,  ragged  boy ;  she,  a  short-kilted 
maiden  in  an  olive  green  petticoat  and  blue 
blouse,  faded  and  stained.  Each  day  at  ebb 
tide  they  drove  their  flock  along  the  shore 
that  they  might  gather  what  the  sea  had  cast 
aside, — for  the  goats  had  a  keen  appetite,  and 
scarce  anything  came  amiss  to  them.  In 
front  of  the  flock  the  boy  walked,  playing 
upon  his  reed  pipe  ;  the  girl  tripped  content 
in  the  rear.  He  never  turned  back  and 
looked  on  her,  but  talked  to  his  pipe,  or 
fell  listening  when  it  told  him  of  the  men's 
thoughts  and  deeds.  As  for  the  maid,  she 
knitted  her  stocking,  and  was  content,  for 
she  was  but  nine  summers  old,  and  felt  scant 
curiosity  about  herself  or  him.  The  goats, 
too,  needed  a  watchful  eye, — there  was  the 
^  Devil  with  the  thousand  Tricks "  which 

227 


228  THE   STONE   PINE 

strayed  away,  and  the  "  Weary  One  "  that 
ever  lagged  behind  and  needed  much  herd- 

oo 

ing.  Now  the  "Devil  with  the  thousand 
Tricks "  made  the  boy  laugh :  he  would 
punish  it,  fight  with  it  and  feel  strong ;  but 
for  the  "  Weary  One "  he  had  nothing  but 
contempt,  calling  it  feeble- couraged  and  a 
woman.  The  maid,  however,  loved  it ;  but 
the  kid  grew  thin,  do  what  she  would.  At 
night  the  goats  were  penned,  and  the  boy 
and  girl  slept  beside  them  in  a  reed  hut, 
conical-shaped,  with  a  small  picture  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  nailed  above  the  door,  and 
on  the  roof  a  curious  prickly  arrangement 
to  keep  away  witches — for  who  knew  whether 
with  fall  of  sun  strange  things  might  be 
abroad  ?  Even  the  boy  was  sometimes  afraid, 
and  would  permit  his  small  companion  to 
creep  close  to  him  and  be  comforted.  She 
was  grateful,  as  became  her,  holding  his  hand 
long  after  he  had  dropped  off  to  sleep,  while 
without  the  black  and  silent  night  seemed 
ever  about  to  speak  and  spoke  not. 

On  the  shore  there  grew  a  Stone  Pine :  it 
was  taller  than  all  other  pines,  and  as  solitary 
as  God.  Even  when  the  children  and  goats 


THE   STONE   PINE  229 

lay  close  by,  still  it  remained  solitary ;  and 
at  rise  and  set  of  sun  the  red  stem  would 
glow  like  a  soul :  fear  would  fall  on  the 
children,  and,  rising,  they  would  stand  before 
it  with  bent  heads.  Sometimes  the  girl 
wondered  on  the  loneliness  of  the  pine: 
was  it  God-lonely  from  being  above  men, 
their  thoughts  and  ways?  The  boy  had 
other  thoughts,  caring  little  for  the  pine,  his 
mind  dwelling  on  curious  bladed  knives, 
horses,  and  lands  far  out  at  sea,  wreck-be- 
girdled,  and  untrod  by  the  foot  of  man.  Yet 
there  were  moments  when  he  also  tasted  of 
loneliness  and  felt  brief  fellowship  with  the 
Pine;  moments  when  the  beauty  of  all  the 
earth  seemed  ripe,  but  in  the  harvest  some 
thing  lacking,  though  he  knew  not  what  it 
was,  neither  had  met  any  one  who  could 
name  it  by  name,  the  Pine  also  remaining 
silent.  The  years  passed — the  boy,  reaching 
up  towards  manhood,  becoming  good  to  look 
on,  so  that  when  the  maid  walked  behind  the 
flock  she  ceased  to  gaze  down  on  her  knitting, 
but  looked  always  at  him.  He  did  not  glance 
back  at  her,  because  the  whole  wide  world 
lay  before  him :  besides,  he  had  known  her 


230  THE   STONE   PINE 

from  a  child,  and,  let  her  strive  much  or  little, 
nothing  but  womanhood  awaited  her,  a  poor 
state  of  scant  account. 

One  day  a  great  restlessness  fell  upon  the 
boy,  so  that  taking  his  pipe  he  strayed  away, 
leaving  the  girl  and  flock  alone.  It  was  vint 
age  time :  men  and  maids  pressed  the  stain 
ing  grape  with  quick-paced  feet,  and  he  stood 
and  played  to  them  while  the  purple  juice 
frothed  in  the  old  brown  wooden  vats.  His 
heart  quickened,  and  drove  him  from  them, 
seeking  satisfaction  elsewhere.  Climbing  the 
mountains,  he  passed  white  oxen  dragging 
blocks  of  marble.  A  sweet  scent  hung  about 
the  beasts,  so  that  he  lingered  a  moment, 
before  pressing  on,  to  look  at  their  heavy 
dewlaps  and  big  luminous  eyes. 

Later  he  came  to  a  seaport,  and  sailed  that 
evening  in  one  of  the  feluccas.  The  west 
wind  blew  upon  him  ,sof t  and  fragrant,  and 
bore  with  it  the  scent  of  other  lands,  and  his 
heart  waxed  impatient  for  the  sight  of  them. 
Many  weeks  passed,  and  the  felucca  coasted 
slowly  down  the  Mediterranean,  then  ported 
helm,  and  began  to  sail  as  slowly  back. 
Sometimes  the  boat  lay  becalmed,  and  all  on 


THE   STONE   PINE  231 

board  except  the  boy  slept  beneath  the 
shadow  of  the  brown  sail :  he  alone  was  glad 
when  the  breeze  sprang  up  once  more,  and 
the  waves  leapt  like  a  laugh  against  the  bows. 
Sometimes,  too,  they  would  drop  anchor  at 
strange  ports;  the  sailors  would  go  ashore 
and  drink  their  fill  of  red  wine  and  of  the 
red  lips  of  girls  :  but  such  scenes  moved  the 
boy  little,  though  his  heart  did  not  cease  to 
burn  restlessly. 

Then  one  day,  the  felucca  having  reached 
its  journey's  end,  the  sails  were  clewed  up, 
and  the  boy  was  free,  if  he  would,  to  return 
home.  The  sun  lay  low  upon  the  horizon 
when  he  drew  near  and  saw  the  maid  seated 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Stone  Pine.  She 
rose  to  her  feet,  and  they  stood  and  looked  at 
each  other :  he  saw  that  she  was  beautiful, 
and  the  restlessness  left  his  heart,  so  that  he 
wondered. 

A  great  fear  fell  on  them  both :  the  maid 
turned  and  fled,  he  following, — though  why 
she  fled,  or  why  he,  who  could  have  overtaken 
her,  did  not,  neither  of  them  knew. 

Then  at  last  her  knees  trembled,  and  she 
ran  back  to  the  Pine  for  shelter.  But  when 


232  THE   STONE   PINE 

the  boy  saw  that  she  was  afraid,  he  grew  bold, 
took  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  on  the 
lips — the  Pine  beside  them  glowing  like  a 
soul. 


THE    STORM 


THE    STOEM 

A  SUDDEN  gale  had  sprung  up  from  the 
north-east ;  great  black-backed  gull  and 
feeble-winged  puffin  had  been  forced  alike 
through  the  smoking  mists  inland.  Night 
fell  amid  the  clash  of  wind  and  sea.  A  nar 
row  track  winding  round  the  cliffs  led  past  a 
cottage ;  light  shone  from  the  windows,  and 
in  the  kitchen  were  three  women.  The  young 
est  lay  in  a  truckle  bed,  a  baby  against  her 
breast ;  an  old  woman,  tall,  gaunt,  and  white- 
haired,  sat  at  a  table,  the  Bible  before  her, 
muttering  over  familiar  passages  with  awk 
ward  lips ;  the  third  moved  softly  about  the 
room  preparing  supper.  She  stood  a  moment 
by  the  bed,  as  the  child  broke  into  a  long, 
low  wail. 

"  Poor  lamb  !  "  she  said ;  "  he  frets  as  if 
your  breast  was  cold  to  him." 

"  Maybe  'tis  cold,"  replied  the  sick  girl, 
indifferently. 

235 


236  THE   STORM 

"Ay,  but  not  to-night,  Nan,"  the  other 
protested,  "  and  his  father  out  in  a  storrn  like 
this ! " 

"  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lad  !  "  ex 
claimed  the  old  woman,  glancing  up;  "he's 
got  that  scamp  Rab  Tapp  wi'  him  in  the  boat. 
Scores  o'  times  I've  told  Joss  'twould  be  safer 
to  sail  'long  o'  decent  folk." 

Nan  stirred  uneasily.  "  Rab's  as  good  as 
the  rest  o'  'em,"  she  muttered,  "  and  a  long 
ways  handier." 

"Handy  wi'  his  tongue  belike,"  retorted 
the  old  woman;  "there  ain't  his  equal  for 
lying  in  this  here  parish.  'Tis  only  reason 
able  that  the  Lord  should  be  angered  agin 
him ;  though  maybe  the  Almighty  will  mind 
that  Joss  has  been  a  good  son  to  me,  and 
spare  the  boat." 

She  was  silent  a  moment,  listening  to  the 
continuous  clamour  of  the  massive  door-bolts 
that  barred  back  the  storm.  "  Ay,  that  Rab," 
she  burst  out,  fiercely,  "  they  should  cast  him 
overboard  the  same  as  the  men  o'  Joppa  cast 
the  prophet  Jonah,  son  of  Amittai.  Who 
knows  but  the  Almighty  may  be  speaking 
now  by  the  voice  o'  the  wind — '  Cast  him  out, 


THE   STORM  237 


cast  him  out,  and  the  raging  waves  of  the 
sea  shall  foam  upon  his  shame.' ' 

"  How  dare  'ee  speak  such  words  as  them  !  " 
cried  the  girl,  springing  up  in  bed.  "  The 
Lord  ain't  no  Moloch  to  devour  men's  lives." 

"And  what's  Kab  Tapp's  life  to  thee?" 
replied  the  other,  sternly.  "  It  ill  becomes  a 
mother  with  her  first  chile  at  breast  to  be 
taking  such  thought  for  furren  men's  lives." 

"  Come,  come,  mother,"  interposed  the  third 
woman,  "let  Nan  be:  supper's  on  the  table, 
and  you'd  feel  better  for  a  snatch  o'  som- 
mat." 

"  I  did  well  to  name  'ee  Martha,"  cried  the 
old  woman,  turning  on  her.  "Your  thoughts 
be  too  much  taken  up  wi'  the  things  o'  this 
world.  What  call  have  I  for  bite  or  sup  when 
the  great  starved  sea  is  hungering  after  my 
son?  Ay,  but  Joss,  lad,  lad,"  she  continued 
to  herself,  "  and  you  that  fond  o'  whistling  !  " 

Martha  made  no  answer,  but,  pouring  out 
a  cup  of  tea,  brought  it  to  the  sick  girl. 
"Happen  'twill  quench  your  thirst  a  bit, 
Nan,"  she  said. 

"'Tain't  that  kind  o'  thirst,"  replied  the 
other,  wearily. 


238  THE   STOKM 

"  Take  it  all  the  same,  lass,"  Martha  urged ; 
and  the  girl  drank. 

"  'Tis  salt  as  the  sea  !  "  she  exclaimed,  push 
ing  the  cup  from  her  with  a  shudder.  "  Seems 
as  if  I  knowed  the  taste  o7  drowning." 

"And  well  you  may,"  exclaimed  the  old 
woman,  "  when  your  man  is  forced  so  nigh 
to  it." 

"  Joss  will  not  be  drowned,"  replied  her 
daughter-in-law  carelessly.  "  What-for  should 
he  be  drowned  ?  Oh,  my  God  !  "  she  ended, 
with  abrupt  change  of  voice,  as  the  hurrying 
scream  of  the  storm  wrenched  its  way  through 
the  cottage,  "  why  did  yer  make  the  sea  ?  " 
She  flung  herself  back  in  the  bed,  and  the 
child  began  once  more  to  cry,  but  she  paid 
no  heed  to  it. 

"  Poor  heart !  "  said  Martha,  stooping  and 
raising  the  baby  in  her  arms,  "  he  frets  over 
things."  She  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  little 
kitchen,  her  face  pressed  close  against  the 
child's,  her  soft  brown  hair  mingling  with  his 
soft  downy  fluff.  "My  own  chile,"  she  con 
tinued  meditatively,  "  was  wonderful  con- 
ten  tsome." 

"  Your  own  chile  !  "  exclaimed  the  harsh- 


THE   STORM  239 

voiced  old  woman.  "  Why,  your  own  chile 
was  born  dead." 

"Her  was  never  dead  to  me,"  Martha 
answered,  gently.  "I  used  to  talk  a  deal  to 
her  lying  there  so  close  and  trustful  agin  my 
heart.  But  now  I  sorter  feel  that  if  me  and 
Jim  had  another  chile,  maybe  'twould  be 
born  dead." 

"  Ay,  and  no  wonder,"  retorted  her  mother ; 
"a  more  shiftless  body  than  Jim  I  ain't  come 
across — always  trapesing  round  in  searching 
work  and  never  finding  it.  He's  a  poor  stick ; 
the  sea  never  gave  him  no  call,  and  you  can 
sit  here  and  eat  your  victuals  content,  come 
storm,  come  clear." 

The  sick  girl  raised  herself  on  her  arm. 
"There's  one  thing  I  never  could  fathom," 
she  exclaimed  with  sudden  interest,  "  and 
that's  his  being  own  brother  to  Rab.  Why, 
he  ain't  no  patch  on  him  !  " 

"  No,"  rejoined  her  mother-in-law,  sharply ; 
"  he's  more  fool  than  cheat,  for  certain.  If 
'twor  he  out  in  the  boat  wi'  Joss,  happen  the 
Lord  might  overlook  him." 

The  girl's  dark  eyes  flashed,  and  Martha 
interposed,  in  a  hurt  voice,  "  Maybe  Jim 


240  THE   STOEM 

ain't  so  quick  at  the  take  up  as  Rab ;  but 
lie's  mortal  persevereshous  at  trying.  After 
all,  Nan,"  she  added,  "you  ain't  never  seen 
E-ab  but  twice." 

"No,  I  ain't  never  seen  him  but  twice," 
the  girl  repeated. 

"  And  when  ye  did  meet  never  spoke  much 
to  one  'nother  !  "  continued  Martha,  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  No,  us  never  spoke  much  to  one 
Mother." 

"  Ay,  certain,"  exclaimed  Martha ;  "  why, 
the  last  time  he  corned  in  here  'twas  a  matter 
of  three  weeks  ago;  you  was  sitting  up  in 
front  of  the  fire  nursing  the  chile,  and  he  just 
stood  over  again  'ee  by  the  chimney-piece, 
sorter  thoughtful.  'Do  you  love  it?'  he 
axed,  '  do  you  love  it  ? ' — but  you  didn't 
make  no  answer.  Them  were  his  words. 
Do  you  mind,  Nan  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  softly,  "  I  mind." 

"  'Twas  a  queer  question  I  reckoned  to  put 
to  a  mother ;  but  there,  you  ain't  never  been 
terrible  took  up  wi'  the  chile." 
'  "No." 

"  Maybe  you  didn't  speak  to  him   sorter 


THE   STORM  241 

tender  afore  you  horned  him — same  as  I  did 
my  little  girl." 

"No." 

"  Yet  'twor  my  chile  that  wor  born  dead." 

"  Ay,"  the  girl  answered,  fiercely,  "  and 
ain't  mine  born  dead  too  ?  " 

The  elder  woman  glanced  at  her  in  aston 
ishment.  "  What  ails  you,  Nan  ? "  she  ex 
claimed.  "Why,  the  poor  lamb  is  calling 
for  the  breast." 

"  I  don't  hear  it  call,"  the  girl  answered, 
stonily. 

Martha  looked  down  with  sad  eyes  at  the 
child  on  her  knee.  "  You  don't  love  it  ter 
rible  tendersome,"  she  said. 

The  girl,  turning  away  her  head,  made  no 
reply.  Without  the  storm  clamoured  more 
fiercely,  and  the  faces  of  the  listening  women 
grew  white  and  tense.  "  Pray  for  them  at 
sea,"  exclaimed  Martha,  glancing  at  her 
mother. 

"  And  ain't  I  praying  for  'em  ?  "  expostu 
lated  the  old  woman,  passionately. 

"  Say  the  words  aloud,  mother,  and  let  us 
join  in." 

The  old  woman  clasped  her  hands,  worn 

16 


242  THE   STOKM 

with  toil,  knotted  with  age,  and  sank  on  her 
knees ;  her  thin  lips  trembled,  but  no  words 
broke  from  them.  Wind  and  sea,  as  if  in 
derision  at  her  helplessness,  burst  into  more 
hideous  combat,  and  the  thunder  heaved  its 
way  through  their  clamour  with  a  noise  like 
the  splitting  of  mountains. 

"  O  God  !  "  sobbed  the  woman,  "  he  wor  a 
good  son  to  me — a  good  son  to  me."  She 
was  silent  a  moment,  and  the  storm  without 
upreared  itself  against  the  cliffs,  rocking  the 
cottage  in  its  heavy  embrace.  "  O  God  ! " 
she  burst  forth  again,  "  ye  would  have  spared 
Sodoin  for  the  sake  of  ten  righteous  men,  and 
'twor  a  terrible  big  and  wicked  city — spare 
the  boat  cause  o'  Joss !  I  wouldn't  have 
axed  so  bold  if  it  wor  a  ship  ;  but  it's  nought 
but  a  boat,  mortal  small  and  tiddleliwinkie, 
wi'  only  dree  men  an'  a  lad  in  it ;  and  the 
lad's  a  decent  lad  come  o'  respectable  church 
folk,  no  chappelites,  a-setting  o'  theirselves 
up  above  their  betters.  Happen  you're  an 
gered  again  Rab  Tapp,  and  well  you  might 
be,  for  he's  not  over  and  above  conspicuous 
in  good  works ;  still,  he's  young,  and  youth's 
laming  time  :  but,  if  ye  be  terrible  set  on 


THE   STORM  243 

cutting  him  off — and  I'll  not  deny  the  temp 
tation — then,  O  Lord  God  !  speak  to  Joss 
through  the  mouth  o'  the  winds,  same  as  ye 
did  the  men  o'  Joppa,  so  that  he  shall  rise 
and  cast  Rab  forth  into  the  deep,  and  the 
sea  shall  cease  her  raging." 

As  she  uttered  the  last  words  the  sick  girl 
sprang  from  the  bed  and  caught  the  old 
woman  by  the  shoulders.  "  How  dare  'ee 
mind  the  Almighty  o'  Rab's  weaknesses  at 
such  a  time  !  "  she  cried,  passionately. 

"And  do  you  reckon  that  the  Lord  has 
forgotten  'em  ?  "  replied  the  old  woman,  in  a 
hard  voice.  "  Ain't  they  all  written  in  the 
Book  o'  Judgment  ?  " 

"  There  be  scores  and  scores  o'  folk  on 
the  sea  to-night,"  the  girl  answered,  "  deal 
wickeder  folk  than  Rab,  and  why  should  the 
Almighty  be  special  took  up  wi'  he  ?  Oh, 
'twas  cruel,  cruel  of  yer  to  put  Him  in  mind 
o'  the  lad  !  " 

"  Ain't  the  names  o'  all  sailor  men  written 
on  the  same  page,  that  the  Lord  may  read 
and  choose  in  the  winking  o'  an  eye  ?  And 
shall  I  see  my  own  son  cast  away  for  fear  o' 
speaking  out  ?"  remonstrated  the  old  woman, 


244  THE   STORM 

fiercely.  "  My  first-born,  that  lay  at  my  breast 
and  milked  me  trustsome  ?  Shame  on  you  to 
think  o'  stranger  folk  afore  your  own  wedded 
husband." 

While  she  spoke  there  was  the  sound  of 
heavy  knocking  on  the  door  without.  Mar 
tha  crossed  the  room,  shot  back  the  great 
bolts,  and  a  man,  pale-faced,  drenched,  and 
battered,  staggered  in.  The  old  woman  gave 
an  abrupt,  keen  cry.  "  My  son  !  "  she  ex 
claimed,  and  would  have  taken  him  in  her 
arms,  but  he  put  her  gently  aside  and  came 
towards  the  girl,  who  stood  barefooted  on  the 
cold  stone  floor,  her  long  brown  hair  curling 
over  her  coarse  night-gown. 

"  Nan,"  he  cried,  "  sweetheart,  woman, 
wife,  God's  given  me  back  to  'ee  !  " 

"  And  Rab  ?  "  she  said,  hoarsely. 

"The  sea  has  taken  its  toll— Rab's 
drowned,"  he  answered. 

"  'Twas  he  I  loved  !  "  she  cried,  and  fell  at 
the  man's  feet  as  dead. 


AT  THE  STROKE  OF  THE  HOUR 


I 


AT  THE  STROKE  OF  THE  HOUR 

T  was  Christmas  Eve,  the  snow  lay  thick 
on  the  village  street,  the  waits  were  out, 
and  small  children  sat  up  in  bed  feeling  very 
happy,  though  they  did  not  well  know  why. 
But  Sam  Crag,  sitting  alone  in  his  cottage, 
did  not  feel  happy.     Fifty  years  had  he  been 
clerk-sexton  in  the  parish  church,  and  now 
he  was  to  be  clerk-sexton  no  more ;  therefore 
the  world  seemed  to  him  a  sorry  place,  and 
Christmas   out  of   joint.     Fifty   dull,    stiff- 
jointed,  yawnful  years;   but   they  had  not 
seemed  long  to  Sam  Crag,  and  it  was  the 
death  of  the  rector  that  first  brought  home 
to  him  that  he  too  had  lagged  behind  his 
time.     The  supposition  pained  him,  and  he 
fought  against  it,  for  his  sap  of  obstinacy 
had   not   yet   run    dry.     Crag   had   always 
spoken   of   the   rector   and  himself   as  "  us 
two  "  ;  and  for  years  "  us  two  "  had  managed 
the  little,  out-of-the-way  country  parish  much 
as  they  had  wished. 

247 


248  AT   THE   STROKE   OF   THE   HOUR 

The  new  rector  was  a  young  man,  not 
without  ideas,  and  determined  among  other 
things  to  restore  the  church,  sweep  away  the 
high-backed  pews  and  creaky  galleries,  and 
Sam  Crag  along  with  them. 

In  the  village  there  were  certain  almshouses 
known  as  the  Bede  cottages.  The  occupiers 
of  these  cottages  received  a  weekly  dole  of 
half-a-crown  and  a  quartern  loaf  of  bread. 
The  bread  was  often  heavy,  and  apt  to  con 
tain  foreign  substances  not  previously  recog 
nised  as  nutritious ;  but  then,  as  the  baker 
said,  "It  was  a  charity  loaf,  and  good  for 
such,"  though  in  a  moment  of  unusual  ex- 
pansiveness  he  had  been  known  to  add,  "  that 
they  who  set  out  to  live  on  charity  had  best 
look  to  their  teeth." 

When  the  rector  had  told  Crag  that  he  had 
grown  too  old  for  his  work,  he  had  told  him 
also  that  he  was  to  have  a  vacant  Bede  cot 
tage,  the  weekly  half-crown  and  quartern 
loaf  of  bread.  Nothing,  therefore,  seemed 
more  certain  than  that  life  for  him  was  to  be 
shorn  of  all  care,  and  that  he  might  totter  to 
the  grave  without  fear  of  starving  by  the 
way;  but  Crag,  with  the  strange  ingratitude 


AT   THE   STROKE   OF   THE   HOUR  249 

of  the  poor,  had  declared  he  would  have 
"  none  o'  their  charities,"  and  when  remon 
strated  with  had  cursed  the  new  rector  to  his 
face  for  "  a  snip  of  a  currit." 

So  it  had  come  about  that  sorrow  on  this 
Christmas  Eve  laid  a  heavy  hand  on  Crag, 
and  his  ears  had  grown  deaf  to  the  song  of 
the  waits.  Now,  sitting  in  the  corner  of  his 
kitchen,  his  eyes  fell  suddenly  on  the  massive 
church  keys.  He  rose  and  unhooked  them 
from  the  nail  behind  the  door — the  nail  on 
which,  each  Sunday  night,  they  had  come 
back  to  rest  till  the  following  Saturday,  when 
the  church  was  unlocked  and  cleaned.  They 
had  grown  used  to  that  nail,  and  the  nail  to 
them,  for  the  Crags,  father  and  son,  had  been 
clerk-sextons  for  three  generations. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  knock  sounded 
on  the  door  and  a  man  entered :  he  looked  at 
Crag  with  a  mixture  of  curiosity  and  pity. 

"  I've  come,"  he  said,  "  for  the  keys." 

Crag  made  no  attempt  to  give  them  to  him, 
but  stood  turning  them  over  and  over  in  his 
hand, — his  chest  heaved,  and  a  tear  splashed 
through  the  clumsy  wards  on  to  the  floor. 

"  I've  kuowed   'em,"  he  exclaimed,  "  ever 


250      AT  THE  STROKE  OF  THE  HOUR 

since  I  was  a  chile."  The  man's  face  grew 
red.  He  looked  first  at  Crag,  then  at  the 
keys,  and  after  a  moment's  hesitation  turned 
on  his  heel  and  went  out. 

"I  reckon,"  he  muttered,  "'twould  be  as 
well  to  call  terinarrer." 

After  a  while  Crag,  having  locked  his  cot 
tage  door,  made  his  way  slowly  through  the 
village  street,  and  up  the  hill  where  the  church 
stood  sentinel  above  the  dead. 

Entering,  he  went  to  where,  in  a  corner  of 
one  of  the  crypts,  he  kept  his  shovel  and  pick, 
and  having  taken  them  passed  out  of  church 
again.  He  climbed  over  the  rugged  graves 
till  he  reached  an  elrn-tree,  at  the  foot  of 
which  his  wife  lay  buried.  Forty  years  she 
had  lain  there,  her  baby  at  her  breast — 
he  had  placed  them  in  one  coffin.  "Her'll 
sleep  quieter  so,"  he  said,  and  she  had  never 
stirred,  but  still  slept  on. 

It  had  been  on  Christmas  Eve  that  she  had 
died :  he-  remembered  that  night  well — the 
snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  moon  shone 
full.  The  waits  had  been  singing  a  Christmas 
hymn,  and  she  had  told  him  to  open  wide  the 
window  that  she  might  hear  more  clearly,  for 


AT   THE   STROKE   OF   THE   HOUR  251 

the  deafness  of  death  was  upon  her.  He  had 
done  so,  and  the  words— 

"  Peace  on  earth,  and  mercy  mild, 
God  and  sinners  reconciled," 

floated  in  through  the  falling  snow,  and  she, 
hearing  them,  smiled  and  passed  out  to  meet 
Him  in  whose  praise  they  sang. 

Crag  cleared  the  snow  away  from  the 
patch  of  ground  next  to  his  wife's  grave, 
and  then  began  to  dig.  It  seemed  to  him 
that,  somewhere  in  his  dulled  brain,  two 
voices  spoke,  and  one  said,  "  Whose  grave  is 
this?" 

And  the  other  answered,  "  Wait  and  you 
will  know  all." 

Then  Loony  Jack,  the  village  idiot,  came 
and  peered  down  upon  him.  A  strange  fool 
was  Loony  Jack,  and  some  there  were  w^ho 
said  that  he  had  the  power  of  scenting  death 
afar  off.  He  watched  the  old  man  pick  and 
shovel,  shovel  and  pick,  and  then  burst  into 
a  laugh,  wild,  mocking,  miserable ;  but  Crag 
heeded  him  not,  for  now  he  knew  that  it  was 
his  own  grave  he  dug,  and  he  desired  to  dig 
it  well.  Loony  Jack  got  tired  of  watching 


252  AT  THE  STROKE  OF  THE  HOUR 

and  went  his  way,  but  the  echo  of  the  laugh 
lingered  among  the  graves.  At  last  Crag 
finished  his  work  and  returned  once  more  to 
the  church,  and  as  he  shut  the  door  behind 
him  his  left  hand  fumbled  restlessly  with  the 
handkerchief  around  his  neck ;  a  moment 
later  and  he  had  untied  it.  Passing  between 
the  high-backed  pews  he  came  to  the  altar, 
and  stood  there,  drawing  the  handkerchief 
through  his  fingers,  backwards  and  forwards. 
It  was  at  those  same  altar-steps  that  he,  one 
morning  in  May,  had  knelt  to  be  married ; 
and  now  the  memory  of  that  day  came  back 
to  him  again.  Once  more  he  saw  himself  rise 
at  dawn,  and  steal  hand  in  hand  with  her,  who 
so  soon  was  to  be  his  bride,  across  the  quiet 
fields,  where  the  blue  mist  hung  sleepily. 
There,  with  none  but  the  sky  to  see  them, 
they  had  made  a  daisy  chain.  His  part  had 
been  to  kiss  the  daisies,  hers  to  weave  the 
flowers.  The  chain  woven,  she  hung  it 
around  his  hat,  for  a  lad  must  needs  look 
his  best  upon  his  wedding  morning.  Then 
they  had  stolen  home,  to  meet  again  before 
the  altar  of  the  old  church  and  swear  to 
love  and  cherish  each  other  till  Death  did 


AT   THE   STROKE   OF  THE  HOUR  253 

them  part.  And  Death  had  parted  them ; 
but  now,  he  said  to  himself,  Death  should 
bring  them  together  again.  The  clock  in  the 
tower  gave  a  great  whirring  scream,  prepar 
atory  to  striking  the  hour. 

"I'll  do  it  on  the  stroke  o'  the  hour," 
muttered  the  old  man — "  on  the  stroke  o' 
the  hour." 

He  wound  the  handkerchief  round  his  neck, 
his  eyes  still  filled  with  visions  of  his  dead 
wife.  Young  and  fair  she  seemed  to  him, 
and  he  himself  felt  like  a  lad  going  to  meet 
his  bride.  Then  there  came  to  him  the  knowl 
edge  that  between  the  death  that  she  he  loved 
had  died,  and  that  which  he  would  bring  upon 
himself,  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  Think 
ing  of  it,  he  fell  upon  his  knees.  "  Oh,  God," 
he  sobbed,  "  is  the  difference  so  mortal  great, 
so  mortal  great  ? " 

From  out  of  the  gloom  of  the  church  a  voice 
answered,  "  Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in 
the  Lord." 

For  one  awful  moment  the  old  man  rose  to 
his  feet,  then  swayed,  and  fell  forward  on 
his  face.  Through  the  church  rang  peal  after 
peal  of  discordant  laughter.  Loony  Jack  was 


254  AT   THE   STROKE   OF   THE   HOUR 

playing  at  funerals;  but  Crag   heeded   him 
not,  for  he  was  dead. 

Then  with  a  whir  the  clock  tolled  twelve, 
and  Christmas  Day  dawned  upon  the  world. 


TRAVELLING  JOE 


TRAVELLING  JOE 

IT  was  Sunday :  the  mill  was  silent,  and  the 
water  pressed  idly  against  the  big  dam, 
opposite  which  stood  old  Zam  Tapp's  cottage. 
Zam  was  seated  in  the  dark  kitchen,  a  bucket 
of  water  between  his  knees,  peeling  potatoes ; 
and  lying  in  a  truckle-bed  was  his  grandson 
Travelling  Joe,  a  boy  of  about  nine  years  old, 
small,  wizen,  and  partly  paralysed.  The  tall 
clock  in  the  corner  of  the  room  had  struck 
twelve,  and  groups  of  people  passed  the  cot 
tage  on  their  return  from  church  and  chapel. 
Zam,  who  did  not  "  howld  wi'  zich  things," 
eyed  them  with  indifference,  not  unmixed 
with  contempt.  He  "reckoned,"  he  said, 
"thet  ha  didn't  want  no  praicher  to  teach 
him  tha  way  tu  'eaven ;  zalvation  wez  a 
koovis  thing,  and,  like  cream,  let  it  alone  and 
twid  come  to  'ee :  meddle  and  praying  widn't 
fetch  it." 

lo  the  boy  lying  there,  his  heart  full  of 

17  257 


253  TRAVELLING  JOE 

the  spirit  of  adventure,  and  his  life  bounded 
by  the  truckle-bed  and  the  four  walls  of  the 
small  kitchen,  the  thought  of  heaven  was  of 
piercing  interest;  it  haunted  his  dreams  sleep 
ing  and  waking,  it  was  his  New  America,  the 
land  which  he  would  one  day  explore.  To 
him  it  never  ceased  to  be  a  matter  of  regret 
that  the  Crystal  Sea  lay  in  front  of  the 
throne  of  God ;  he  would  have  wished  it 
might  have  been  in  what  he  called  the  "  dim- 
met  1  part  o'  'eaven  " ;  a  far  border-land  un 
known  to  the  angels,  and  where  even  the  eye 
of  God  fell  seldom.  And  now  as  he  lay  and 
watched  Zam  peeling  the  potatoes,  he  longed 
unconsciously  to  hear  the  "  loosing  of  the 
mill,"  for  the  sound  of  the  great  waters  leap 
ing  forth  was  to  him  as  the  rushing  of  the 
River  of  Life. 

Zain's  mind  was  occupied  by  the  thought  of 
his  dead  wife.  "  Eh !  eh  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
suddenly,  "  hur  wez  a  windervul  'and  at  biling 
a  tetty,  wez  my  owld  wuman,  and  when  it 
coomed  tu  tha  last  hur  mind  dwelt  on  it 
painvul.  '  Vather,'  hur  zed,  <  I  reckon  I've 
cooked  'ee  my  last  tetty.'  i  I  reckon  'ee  'ave, 

1  Dusky,  dim,  full  of  shadows. 


TRAVELLING  JOE  259 

moather,'  I  answered.  Hur  wez  zileut  a  bit, 
then  all-ta-wance  liur  zot  up  in  bed  and 
ketclied  howldt  o'  me  by  tha  weskit.  '  Tull 
Jane ' — thic  wez  yer  pore  moather — £  tull 
Jane/  hur  zed,  '  twez  tha  zalt  thet  did  it ; 
twez  all  along  o'  tha  zalt.'  But,  law  bless 
'ee,  zalt  or  no  zalt,  Jane's  tetties  wez  niver 
a  patch  on  hum.  I  reckon  hur  hand  will 
ba  raoast  out  o'  biling  tetties  by  tha  time  I 
jines  hur;  but  law,  I  doant  complain,  moast 
like  tez  zweet  stuff  they  lives  on  up  ther  : 
I  niver  cud  stomach  zich  stuff  mezulf ;  but 
bless  'ee,  glory  hez  tu  be  paid  for  the  same  ez 
tha  rest." 

A  vision  of  his  grandmother's  portly  form 
arose  in  the  child's  mind  as  he  lay  and  lis 
tened.  "  Grandfer,"  he  said,  udo  'ee  reckon 
thet  grandmoather  took  tu  wings  natrel  fust 
along  ?  " 

Zam  stopped  peeling  the  potatoes.  "  Many's 
tha  time  I've  thought  on  thic,  Joe,"  he  an 
swered,  sorrowfully,  "  and  I  ba  moast  a-feardt 
hur  didn't ;  tha  noo-fangled  ways  wez  alwiz 
contrary  tu  hur,  and  if  ther  wez  wan  thing 
more  than  a  tother  hur  cudn't  abide  twez 
a  loose  veather  in  her  bed.  Eh  !  eh  !  I  wid 


260  TRAVELLING  JOE 

dearly  o'  liked  tu  o'  gone  along  fust  and  put 
hur  in  tha  way  o'  things  a  bit ;  but  ther,  if 
yer  doant  lave  things  tu  tha  Almighty,  who 
shall  'ee  leave  'em  to  ?  " 

"  Tha  Laurd  ba  turribul  mindful  o'  poor 
folk,"  the  boy  said,  questioningly. 

"  Ay,  ay,  lad,"  the  old  man  answered, 
"ther  ba  a  deal  o'  tha  wuman  about  tha 
Almighty.  Ha  wull  pramise  'ee  an  ill  tarn 
if  yer  doant  mend  ;  but  Ha  ba  zlow  tu  lay  it 
on — zlow  tu  lay  it  on." 

Joe  was  silent  a  moment,  and  Zam  began 
once  more  to  peel  the  potatoes.  At  last  the 
boy  spoke.  "  Sposing  grandmoather  wez  tu 
break  her  wing,"  he  cried,  excitedly,  "  what 
then,  grandfer — what  then  ?  " 

The  old  man  flushed.  "  Angels  baint  for 
doing  zich  things  ez  thic,  Joe,"  he  answered ; 
"  there's  nought  promiscuous  in  'eaven.  I 
reckon  thet  they  thet  ba  noo  tu  tha  trade 
flies  mortal  zlow  fust  along — zummat  like 
owld  Varmer  Rod's  payhen ;  no  hitting  o' 
theirselves  agin  a  tray.  Yer  grandmoather 
kind  o'  thought  o'  thic  hurzulf,  and  jest  avor 
hur  turned  over  in  hur  bed  for  tha  last  time, 
her  looked  up  in  me  vace  kind  o'  trustzome, 


TRAVELLING   JOE  201 

'  I'll  take  it  aisy,  vather,'  her  zed,  '  and  the 
Laurd  wull  do  the  rast.'  '  Eh  !  eh  !  moather,' 
I  zed,  '  Ha  woant  forzake  'ee.  Ha's  bin  a 
pore  man  Hiszulf,  an'  knaws  what  tiz  not  tu 
ba  larned.'  Hur  smiled,  but  I  zaw  tha  tears 
in  hur  eyes.  '  I  shall  miss  yer  hand,  vather,' 
hur  zed,  i  tha  valley  o'  tha  shader  ba  turribul 
dark.'  'The  Laurd  wull  walk  wi'  'ee, 
moather,'  I  zed,  i  Hiz  hand  ba  more  restful 
than  mine.'  i  Eh,  but  vust  along,'  her  mur 
mured,  '  vust  'long ' ;  then  hur  claused  hur 
eyes  and  died  quietvul.  Hur  wez  mortal 
much  a  daman,  poor  zoul.  Conzarvitive  to 
tha  end — conzarvitive  to  tha  end." 

Later,  when  the  frugal  dinner  had  been 
cooked  and  eaten,  Zam  drew  his  big  arm-chair 
up  to  the  fire  and  fell  asleep.  The  boy  closed 
his  eyes  too,  but  only  that  he  might  the  more 
easily  dwell  in  an  imaginary  world.  He 
wondered  what  the  far  confines  of  heaven 
looked  like,  and  whether  he  should  find  vol 
canoes  there,  and  as  he  pictured  the  scene  he 
suddenly  startled  the  old  man  out  of  his  sleep. 
"  Grandfer,  grandfer,"  he  cried  excitedly, 
"  sposing  'eaven  shid  blaw  up  !  " 

"Bless  tha  boy,"  Zam  answered,  looking 


262  TRAVELLING  JOE 

anxiously  at  the  small  fire,  "  I  thought  vor 
zure  tha  kettle  wez  biling  auver." 

"  Naw,  granf er,"  said  Joe,  "  I  wez  only  a- 
wondering  what  tha  diinmet  parts  o'  'eaven 
might  be  arter  when  God  wez  kind  o'  think 
ing  o'  zommat  ulse." 

Zam's  deep-set  eyes  twinkled.  "  A  bit  con 
trary  may  ba,"  he  said,  "  but  nought  light- 
zome,  Joe — nought  lightzoine." 

"  Folk  ba  turribul  spiritless  up  tu  'eaven," 
the  boy  answered,  sadly.  "  They  baistesses 
now  that  stand  avor  tha  throne — do  'ee  reckon 
thet  they  iver  roar  ?  " 

"  Wull,"  his  grandfather  answered  after  a 
moment,  "  I  widn't  reckon  on  it,  if  I  wez  you, 
Joe — I  widn't  reckon  on  it ;  but,"  he  added,  as 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  boy's  disappointed  face, 
"  who  can  tull  what  the  talking  o'  zich  crit 
ters  as  thic  wull  be  like — fearsome,  no  doubt." 

"  And,  grandfer,"  Joe  exclaimed,  with  ris 
ing  colour,  "  if  lame  Tom  wez  ther  wi'  hiz 
crutch  now,  and  jest  stepped  on  tha  taw  o' 
wan  o'  they  baistesses,  then  ha  wid  talk  mor 
tal  spiritty,  grandfer,  widn't  ha?  " 

"  Eh,  for  zure,  for  zure,  mortal  spiritty,  I'll 
be  bound,"  Zam  answered. 


TRAVELLING   JOE  2C3 

The  flush  of  excitement  died  out  from  the 
boy's  face.  "  Moast  like  'twull  niver  happen," 
he  said,  in  a  sorrowful  voice ;  "  up  tu  'eaven 
things  ba  painful  riglar." 

"  Ba  'ee  tired,  lad  ? "  Zam  asked,  as  he  rose 
from  his  chair  and  lifted  the  child  tenderly 
in  his  arms.  "  Shall  I  carry  'ee  tu  and  fraw 
a  bit?" 

Joe  pressed  his  thin  white  face  against  the 
old  man's  breast. 

"  Tull  me  about  things  avor  I  wez  born, 
grandfer,"  he  said.  "  Tull  me  about  vather ; 
wez  ha  vine  and  upstanding  ?  " 1 

"Ay,  ay,  lad,  ha  wez  pleasant  tu  look 
upon,"  Zam  answered,  "  but  habrauk  yer  pore 
mother's  heart  for  all  o'  thic.  He  wez  turribul 
wild,  wez  Jim ;  good-hearted  anuff,  but  turri 
bul  wild  ;  ha  wezn't  built  for  marrying ;  ha 
cudn't  stay  pauking  about  in  a  little  vullage 
zich  ez  this  ba;  ha  zed  thet  tha  wordel  wez 
zmall  anuif,  but  ez  vor  tha  village,  ha  couldn't 
breathe  in  it ;  and  yer  pore  moather  hur 
cudn't  get  tu  understand  thet  nohow — hur 
reckoned  thet  if  ha  loved  hur,  ha  wud  stay  ; 
but,  law  bless  'ee,  lad,  vor  men  zich  ez  Jim 

1  Well  built. 


264  TRAVELLING   JOE 

ther  ba  zommat  ulse  in  the  wordel  beside  tha 
love  o'  women-folk,  tho'  they,  pore  zouls,  cant 
gaw  fur  tu  zee  it.  But  ha  wez  turribul  fond 
o'  hur  vor  all  thic,  and  I  cud  zee  thet  it  jest 
went  tu  his  heart  tu  act  contrary;  but  ha 
cudn't  help  it,  pore  lad — twez  the  nater  thet 
wez  in  him  fo'ced  him  on.  Eh,  but  they  made 
a  windervul  haridzome  couple  tha  day  they 
wez  merrid ;  the  vullage  riglar  tamed  out  tu 
look  on  ?em,  and  I  thort  tu  mezulf  thet  twid 
o'  bin  a  proud  day  vor  my  pore  owld  wuman 
if  tha  Almighty  had  spared  hur ;  but  twez 
better  ez  it  twez — better  ez  it  wez.  Wull, 
they  hadn't  a-bin  merrid  a  skaur  o'  wiks  avore 
Jim  wez  riglar  pining  tu  ba  off :  ha  didn't 
zay  nought,  but  wid  gaw  and  wander  about 
in  tha  wids  for  haurs,  and  wan  day  ha  didn't 
coome  'ome ;  he  wrote  from  Liverpool  tu  zay 
ha  wez  starting  vor  Merikey.  But  tha  ship 
wez  lost  wi'  all  'ands ;  ay,  ay,  pore  lad,  I 
reckon  ha  zlapes  zound  anuff  now  wi'  tha 
zay  a-rolling  a-tap  o'  him  :  ha  cud  niver  o' 
breathed  iv  it  had  bin  airth.  But  yer 
moather,  hur  niver  forgave  him  vor  it — niver : 
twez  a  Zunday  thet  tha  noos  coomed,  and 
Martha  Snykes  and  zome  o'  tha  naybours 


TRAVELLING   JOE  205 

rinned  up  yhere  ez  fast  ez  they  cud,  pore 
zouls,  reckoning  thet  yer  moather  wid  like  to 
cry  all-tugether  comfortabul,  tha  zame  ez  it 
iz  uyshil  wi'  wirnen  ;  but,  law  bless  'ee,  when 
her  saw  they  well-nmining  dumans  cooming 
droo  tha  door,  hur  tarned  hur  back  quat 1  on 
'em  and  marched  up- stairs.  Arter  a  bit  her 
coomed  down  wi'  a  bonnet  all  auver  pink  roses 
atap  o7  hur  'ead,  and  Martha  Snykes  wez  thet 
tooked  aback  thet  hur  fell  down  wi'  tha  recur 
ring  spasams  and  drank  ivery  drop  o'  brandy 
ther  wez  in  the  'ause  avor  hur  wez  brought  to. 
Yer  moather  didn't  throw  a  look  at  hur, 
but  went  off  down  tha  strait  tu  charch  wi' 
all  tha  naybours  standing  at  ther  doors  and 
crying  shame ;  but,  law  bless  'ee,  hur  didn't 
heed  'em  ony  more  than  tha  geese  on  tha 
green.  Ay,  ay,  pore  zoul,  hur  wez  alwiz 
wan  for  howlding  hur  head  high ;  hur  niver 
cud  stomach  tha  contrary.  Wull,  wull, 
women's  women,  mortal  strong  in  tha  af 
fections,  but  managing  tu  tha  last — manag 
ing  tu  tha  last.  Them  wez  turribul  days, 
and  yer  moather's  vace  grew  that  hard  I  wez 
moast  afeardt  tu  look  at  it.  I  thought  mayba 
1  Plump 


2C8  TRAVELLING  JOE 

tliet  when  yer  coomed  things  might  o'  bin 
diffurrent ;  I  tooked  'ee  in  tu  hur.  'Jane,' 
I  zed,  i  ha  wull  want  'ee  alwiz,'  and  when  I 
zed  thic  hur  kained l  acrass  at  'ee,  and  hur 
vace  changed  back  intu  a  wuman's  vace  agin ; 
then  all-ta-wance  zommat  coomed  auver  hur 
and  hur  tarned  hur  vace  round  agin  tha 
wall.  '  Take  'im  away,'  hur  zed,  '  ha  ba 
nought  tu  me.'  Hur  niver  spoke  arter  thic; 
ther  wez  ony  wan  pusson  in  the  wordel  thet 
hur  iver  loved,  and  thet  wez  Jim,  and  when  ha 
died,  hur  wi'  all  hur  pride  wez  f  o'ced  tu  valler." 

Later,  when  Zam  laid  the  boy  in  the  old 
truckle-bed,  Joe  looked  up  in  his  face. 
"  Vather  wez  mortal  understandabul,"  he 
murmured  sleepily. 

"  But  not  tu  women-folk,"  Zam  answered, 
"  not  tu  women-folk.  Wull,  wull,"  he  con 
tinued  to  himself,  "  tha  lad  hez  hiz  vather's 
spirut,  ivery  bit  o'  it ;  but  ha  wull  niver 
break  no  wuman's  heart  wi'  wandering, — tha 
Lord  hez  minded  otherwise." 

It  was  about  a  week  after  the  conversation 
recorded  had  taken  place  that  Joe's  uncle, 

'Looked  intensely. 


TRAVELLING  JOE  2C7 

Ben  Tapp,  came  to  Zam's  cottage ;  but  the 
old  man  was  not  at  home,  and  Ben,  who, 
after  many  years  spent  in  America,  had  ar 
rived  in  England  only  to  find  that  most  of 
his  relations  were  dead  and  he  himself  for 
gotten,  sat  down  on  Travelling  Joe's  bed  in 
an  exceedingly  bad  humour  with  himself 
and  the  world  in  general. 

"  Wall,  Travelling  Joe,"  he  said,  "  thet  be 
a  darned  queer  start  o'  a  name  yer  have  fixed 
to  yerself  anyhow.  They  pins  o'  yars  ain't 
extra  spry  at  covering  the  ground,  I  shud 
think  from  the  look  o'  'em." 

"  But  things  wull  ba  mortal  diffurent  up 
ta  'eaven,  uncle  Ben,"  the  boy  answered. 
"  Ther  woant  ba  no  diffurence  'twixt  me  and 
tother  folk  then,  'cept  rnayba  I  shall  ba  more 
rasted.  I  shall  do  a  sight  o'  travelling  when 
I  gets  up  ther ;  you  zee,  uncle  Ben,  tha  Al 
mighty  ba  powerful  understandzome,  zo  I 
ain't  got  no  cause  tu  ba  feardt  when  I  gaws 
up  avore  tha  throne,  and  I  shall  jest  ax  Him 
tu  let  me  vind  noo  ways  droo  tha  dimmet 
parts  o'  'eaven.  'Dear  Laurd,' I  shall  zay, 
i  I  knaws  what  rasting  ba  like,  and  now  I 
wid  dearly  like  tu  ba  doing.' " 


268  TRAVELLING  JOE 

Just  as  Ben  Tapp  would  have  tortured 
any  helpless  animal  that  fell  into  his  power, 
so  now,  as  he  looked  down  on  the  boy's 
eager,  pathetic  face,  a  desire  came  into  his 
heart  to  crush  out  its  happiness. 

"  Thar  ain't  no  such  place  as  'eaven,  Joe," 
he  said,  leaning  forward  and  placing  his  great 
hand  on  the  child's  cripple  form ;  "  'tis  all 
darned  rot — bunkum,  as  us  says  out  in  the 
States.  And  as  for  the  Almighty  that  yer 
talk  so  slick  about,  tha  bally  old  'oss  has 
kicked  his  last  kick.  Natur  hez  played  low 
down  on  yer,  Joe,  and  tied  yer  up  to  yar 
darned  bed ;  but  when  Death  gits  hould  of 
yer,  ha  wull  tie  yer  a  tarnation  sight  tighter, 
yer  can  bet  yer  bottom  dollar  on  thet,  Joker ; " 
and  the  man  burst  into  a  laugh  of  coarse  en 
joyment.  "  Thar,  young  shaver,"  he  added, 
as  he  rose  from  the  bed,  "  thet's  the  opinion 
o'  wan  thet  has  covered  a  darned  sight  more 
miles  in  his  life  than  yer  have  minutes,  so 
stow  it  in  yar  pipe  and  smoke  it "  :  so  saying, 
he  left  the  child  alone.  But  from  that  mo 
ment  a  change  came  over  Travelling  Joe — he 

o  o 

began  to  pine  away,  and  the  villagers  said  he 
was  "  marked  for  death  " ;   but  Zam,  as  he 


TRAVELLING   JOE  269 

walked  to  and  fro  with  the  dying  boy  in  his 
arms,  muttered,  "  Better  death  than  thet  tha 
Union  shid  'ave  him ;  better  thet  than  thic — 
better  thet  than  thic." 

One  day,  when  it  was  plain  that  Joe  was 
more  than  usually  ill,  Martha  Snykes  came  to 
the  cottage.  "  I  jest  drapped  in,  Zam  Tapp," 
she  said,  sinking  her  stout  form  in  the  near 
est  chair,  "  to  tull  'ee  o'  a  remedy,  a  mortal 
efficumcasious  remedy,  tho'  I  zay  it  ez  shudn't, 
baing,  zo  tu  spake,  the  inventor  o'  tha  zame. 
But,  law,  I've  suffered  thet  turribul  bad  me- 
zulf ;  what  wi'  tha  recurring  spasams,  and  a 
percussion  in  the  head  that  jest  drones  on  con- 
tinuel  for  all  the  wordel  like  the  passon  o' 
praiching  o'  Zundays,  thet  I  cant  a-bear  tu 
think  of  the  pore  child  wi'  death  rampaging 
auver  him,  and  tha  cure,  zo  tu  spake,  at  hiz 
vurry  door  ;  tha  zame  baing  nort  ulse  but  a 
tayspoonf  ul  o'  tha  brownest  o'  sugar,  togither 
wi'  a  tayspoonf  ul  o'  tha  strongest  o'  brandies, 
and  let  it  be  tooked  zitting,  Natur  liking 
a  smoothness  at  zich  times.  I  have  alwiz 
reckoned  mezulf  thet  if  thet  child's  inoather 
had  vallered  my  advice  and  tooked  thickey 
remedy,  hur  wid  niver  'ave  bin  lying  in  tha 


270  TRAVELLING  JOE 

charchyard  at  this  yhere  blessid  minnit ;  tho' 
I  won't  gaw  for  tu  deny  thet  hur  made  a  vine 
corpse,  straight  vaychers  favouring  the  zarne. 
The  which  I  have  alwiz  allowed,  and  many's 
the  time  I've  zed  ez  much.  '  Jane  Vaggis,' 
I've  zed,  i  may  have  acted  a  bit  contrary  in 
hur  life,  zich  ez  tha  wearing  o'  roses  at  mis- 

7  O 

taken  moments,  but  taken  ez  a  corpse,  hur 
did  hur  dooty,  hur  looked  hur  part.'  Not  thet 
I  would  ever  act  contrary  tu  them  ez  Natur 
hed  less  vavoured  at  zich  times ;  and  when 
my  pore  moather  came  tu  the  last,  and  what 
wi'  dropsy  and  wan  thing  and  tother,  hur  wez 
moast  tha  size  o'  tha  feather-bed  that  hur 
layed  on,  i  Moather,'  I  zed,  '  if  yer  'ave  a 
fancy  in  coffins,  zay  the  wud  and  I  woant 
go  for  tu  deny  'ee.'  i  Martha,'  hur  answered, 
4  ony  colour  but  black,  and  let  the  handles 
ba  shiny  ; '  and  I  guved  hur  hallum l  picked 
out  wi'  brass,  and  ther  ain't  a  corpse  in  tha 
parish  ez  wez  hurried  more  comfortabul.  But 
ther,"  she  added  as  she  rose  from  her  seat,  "  I 
must  be  gettin'  along  'ome ;  law  bless  us  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  looking  down  on  Joe,  "  how 
turribul  bad  the  pore  chil  does  look;  but 

'Elm. 


TRAVELLING  JOE  271 

there,  ha  iz  gwaying  tu  a  home  o'  light,  tho' 
I  alwiz  reckoned  mezulf  thet  'eaven  must  ba 
trying  tu  tha  eyes.  Wull,  I  wish  'ee  good 
day,  Zam  Tapp,"  she  added,  "and  doan't 
forget  a  tayspoonful  o'  the  brownest  o' 
sugars  togither  wi'  a  tayspoonful  o'  tha 
strongest  o'  brandies,  and  let  the  zame  ba 
tooked  zittinor " 

o 

"  Grandfer,"  said  the  boy  when  the  door 
closed  on  Martha  Snykes's  fat,  comfortable 
form,  "  carry  me  tu  and  fraw  a  bit  and  tull 
me  zommat;  tull  me  what  the  wordel  ba  like 
out  ther, — ba  it  mortal  wide  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  lad,"  Zam  answered,  raising  the 
dying  child  in  his  arms,  "  wide  and  lonezome, 
wide  and  lonezome." 

"  But  windervull  full  o'  ditches,"  Joe  said  ; 
"  do  'ee  jump  they  ditches,  grandfer,  when 
yer  gaws  tu  and  fraw  tu  wark  ?  " 

"Naw,  lad,  I  ba  getting  owld,"  Zam  an 
swered  ;  "  I  moastly  walks  'longzide." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Joe  spoke.  "  Grandfer,"  he  said,  "  do  'ee 
reckon  thet  they  knaws  more  about  'eaven 
auver  tu  Merikey  than  they  does  yhere  ?  " 

"  'Tiz  tha  tother  zide  o'  tha  wordel,"  the 


272  TRAVELLING   JOE 

old  man  answered  ;  "  maybe  they  zees  clearer 
ther." 

"  I  ba  mortal  wangery,1  grandfer,"  Travel 
ling  Joe  answered,  sighing;  UI  reckon  I  cud 
zlape." 

Zam  laid  the  dying  boy  back  in  the  old 
truckle-bed.  "  Shall  I  tull  'ee  zommat  from 
the  Buk,  lad  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  child  shivered.  "  Naw,  grandf er,"  he 
answered,  "  I  wid  liefer  bide  quiet."  He 
sank  into  a  broken  slumber,  suddenly  to 
awake  with  a  start. 

"  'Tiz  turribul  dinimet,"  he  exclaimed ; 
"  but,"  and  his  face  brightened,  "  I  zees 
things  like  ditches  :  "  so  saying,  he  died. 

1  Tired. 


RAB  VINCH'S  WIFE 


18 


RAB  VINCH'S   WIFE 

THE  chill  October  dusk  swept  down  upon 
the  village,  as  it  lay  sheltered  against  a 
red-breasted  Devonshire  hill,  at  the  foot  of 
which,  where  the  river  meandered  brown-faced 
and  silent  out  among  the  meadows,  stood  Rab 
Vinch's  cottage.  The  firelight  crept  across 
the  threshold,  throwing  shadows  by  the  way 
on  the  white-washed  walls  of  the  small 
kitchen,  and  outlining  Rab's  harsh  passionate 
features  as  he  sat  and  stared  down  on  the 
flames.  A  certain  peaceful  quiet  which  reigned 
in  the  room — for  Rab's  wife,  who  was  prepar 
ing  the  evening  meal,  moved  softly — was 
broken  by  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  with  a 
brief  knock  a  man  entered. 

"  They've  brought  it  in  murder  agin  lame 
Tom,"  he  cried,  excitedly. 

Rab  shifted  back  his  chair,  and  his  face 
grew  grey  beneath  his  tanned  skin. 

275 


276  EAB  VINCH'S  WIFE 

"An'  tha  Squoire  ain't  done  nought!"  he 
exclaimed. 

"Eh?  tha  Squoire,"  repeated  the  man, 
turning  towards  him ;  but  a  sudden  movement 
on  the  part  of  the  woman  prevented  him  from 
seeing  Rab.  "  It  'pears,"  he  continued,  "  thet 
inter  tha  'sizes  tha  Squoire  bain't  no  more  than 
ony  tother  man ;  tho'  ha  did  git  a  speshil  doc 
tor  down  from  Lonnon,  costing  pounds  an' 
pounds,  jest  tu  show  thet  lame  Tom  wezn't 
fixed  tu  his  chump 1  tha  zame  ez  moast  folk ; 
but  tha  jidge  wez  vor  hanging,  jidges  baing 
paid  vor  zich,  zo  hanging  it's  ta  ba ;  ony  down 
in  tha  vullage  uz  reckons  ther  wez  more  than 
wan  pusson  mixed  up  in  that  ther  murder." 

"  Down  in  tha  vullage  they  ba  mazing  cliv- 
var,  no  doubt,"  the  woman  answered,  scorn 
fully;  "but  tha  law  ain't  no  vule  to  ba 
a-hanging  o'  hinnocent  folk." 

The  man  moved  a  step  nearer,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  her  arm. 

"  Thet  ba  jest  wher  'ee  ba  wrong,  Zusan 
Vinch,"  he  said.  "  I  zeed  thickey  corpse  a  vull 
dree  hours  a-vour  tha  perlice  iver  clapped  eyes 
on  it,  an'  twez  riglar  ringed  round  wi'  f ut- 

1  Off  the  chump-=wti>  quite  in  his  right  mind. 


RAB  VINCH'S  WIFE  277 

marks  thet  wez  niver  made  by  ony  boot  o' 
lame  Tom's ;  eh,  an'  if  it  had  not  rained  thet 
powerful  spirited,  tha  perlice  wid  o'  zeen  'em 
themzulves,  blind  ez  tha  ba.  An'  my  wife 
hur  zed  ta  me  a  skaur  o'  times,  '  Tummas 
Wulkie,'  hur's  zed,  why  doant  'ee  gaw  inter 
Extur  an'  tull  tha  law  what  yer  'ave  zeen  wi' 
yer  own  eyes  ? '  An'  I've  up  an'  zed  tu  hur, 
'  Naw,'  zes  I,  *  tha  law  ba  a  catchy  thing,  an' 
like  tother  folk's  turnips,  best  not  meddled 
with.' " 

An  expression  of  fear  passed  over  the 
woman's  face.  "Tha  law  ain't  for  the  hang 
ing  o'  hinnocent  folk,"  she  repeated,  doggedly. 

"  Tha  law  an'  tha  perlice  ba  moast  wan," 
the  man  answered  with  contempt,  "alwiz 
snuffing  round  arter  tha  wrong  scent,  like 
varmer  Plant's  tarrier  dawg.  Why  did  Josh 
Tuckitt  sail  for  Meriky  tha  day  arter  the 
murder?  wat  call  had  ha  to  ba  zo  mazing 
smart  all-ta-wance  ?  answer  me  that,  Zusan 
Vinch." 

"Josh  Tuckitt  had  nought  watever  to  do 
wi'  it,"  Rab  interposed,  impetuously, 

"  How  do  yer  coome  to  knaw  thic  ?  "  the 
man  asked,  with  a  look  of  suspicion. 


278 

"  Cuz  uz  wez  togither  that  night." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then 
Susan  Finch  spoke. 

"  Why  can't  yer  let  things  bide  as  they 
ba,  Tummas  Wulkie  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  pas 
sionately.  "  Wan  wid  think  yer  had 
killed  tha  poor  man  yersulf,  tha  way 
yer  ba  alwiz  pauking  tha  blame  on  tother 
folk." 

"  'Tiz  a  quare  thing,"  the  man  answered, 
turning  on  his  heel,  "  that  a  long  tongue  an7 
a  short  understandin'  moast  times  run  in 
couples ;  but  ther  wuman  wez  a  kind  o'  extry 
thought  o'  tha  Almighty's,  an'  uz  all  knaw 
thet  tiz  tha  way  o'  zich  things  to  cost  a  deal 
more  than  they  ba  worth.  An'  ez  for  tha 
pauking  o'  tha  blame  on  tother  folk,"  he  con 
tinued,  as  he  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
out  into  the  night,  "  I  wid  never  'ave  belaved 
thet  a  dumman  not  more  than  a  skaur  o' 
months  merried  wid  o'  bin  zo  zet  on  tha  hang 
ing  o'  a  pore  natrel ;  but  ther  women  ba  con 
trary  critters,  tumble  zet  on  tha  squashing 
o'  vlies,  but  aiting  ther  roast  pork  with  tha 
rest." 

The  echo  of  the  man's  retreating  footsteps 


EAB  VINCH'S  WIFE  279 

died  away,  and  the  kettle  seemed  to  hiss  more 
loudly  in  the  silence  that  fell  upon  the  little 
kitchen.  At  last  Rab  spoke. 

"  Hanging  ba  a  stuffy  death,"  he  said, 
hoarsely — "  a  mortal  stuffy  death." 

She  knelt  down  beside  him.  "Twez  an 
accident,"  she  whispered ;  "  yer  ba  thet  strong 
'ee  doant  alwiz  knaw." 

"  Yer  ba  a  riglar  dumman  wi'  yer  hacci- 
dents,  haccidents,"  he  interrupted,  with  fierce 
contempt ;  "  ain't  I  towld  'ee  a  skaur  o'  times 
thet  'twezn't  no  haccident." 

"  An'  lame  Tom  ? "  she  asked,  faltering- 

^ 

"  Lame  Tom  wezn't  in  it." 

"Nor  Josh  Tuckitt?" 

"  Naw,  nor  Josh  Tuckitt." 

"  O  God,  Rab  !  "  she  exclaimed.  He  drew 
away  from  her,  but  she,  bending  forward,  let 
her  face  droop  upon  his  knee.  The  tall  clock 
in  the  corner  ticked  on  towards  night,  and 
the  kettle  boiled  over,  but  the  man  and  the 
woman  heeded  neither :  he  was  dimly  con 
scious  that  her  hot  tears  were  falling  upon 
his  hand,  but  when  she  spoke  her  voice 
seemed  far  away. 


280  RAB  VINCH'S  WIFE 

"Rab,"  she  said,  "an'  zoon  ther  wull  ba 
dree  o'  uz." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  and  his  face 
softened,  and  an  expression  of  pity  came  into 
his  fierce,  deep-set  eyes. 

"  Little  Moather,"  he  said. 

She  clung  to  him  with  passionate  vehe 
mence.  "  There  cud  niver  ba  no  tother  man 
but  yer  for  me,  Rab,"  she  sobbed — "  niver, 
niver,  whatever  'ee  did." 

His  muscular  hands  closed  round  her  with 
a  rare  tenderness,  and  great  beads  of  sweat 
gathered  upon  his  forehead. 

"  What  made  'ee  gaw  for  to  do  it  when  uz 
wez  that  happy  ?  "  she  said. 

His  lips  trembled,  as  if  he  were  about  to 
speak,  but  he  did  not  answer  her. 

uRab,"  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  shiver, 
"  things  dursn't  bide  ez  they  ba ;  they  dursn't, 
they  dursn't." 

His  whole  expression  changed,  the  fierce 
look  returned  to  his  eyes. 

"  Dursn't  ?  "  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  of  ris 
ing  anger ;  "  who  axed  'ee  for  yer  'pinion  wan 
way  or  tother  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him,  and  a  silence  fell 


RAB  VINCH'S  WIFE  281 

between  them,  till  with  a  sudden  rush  of 
suspicion  the  thought  came  to  Rab  that  she 
was  condemning  him. 

"  What  ba  'ee  a-thinking  of  ?  "  he  asked, 
fiercely. 

"  Rab,"  she  said,  in  her  soft,  low  voice,  as 
she  rubbed  the  lapel  of  his  brown  velveteen 
coat  with  her  hand,  "I  wez  ony  reckoning 
thet  twezn't  for  nought  thet  our  Lord  coomed 
inter  tha  wordel  feeble  in  body ;  twezn't  for 
nought  thet  Ha  let  Simon  o'  Gyrene  carry 
tha  cross  up  tha  steep  hill  to  Golgotha ;  it 
bain't  tha  strong  who's  tu  lane  on  tha  wake." 
She  stopped  a  moment,  and  he  looked  down 
on  her  upturned  face  with  a  curious  mixture 
of  pity,  tenderness,  and  irritation. 

"  'Ee  ba  powerful  anxious  to  git  me  ter 
'Eaven,  wan  way  or  tother,"  he  said,  with  a 
grim  smile. 

"  Rab,"  she  answered,  taking  his  great 
knotted  hands  and  pressing  them  against  her 
breast,  "  I  widn't  'ave  'ee  act  contrary  to 
tha  best  thet  ba  in  'ee,  tez  ony  thic,  tiz  ony 
thic ;  and  O  Rab,  if  yer  had  zeen  lame  Tom 
ez  I  did  when  tha  perlice  tooked  him,  his 
vace  thet  scart  wi'  fear,  ha  might  'a  been 


282  EAB  VINCH'S  WIFE 

a  poor  dumb  critter  caught  in  wan  o7  yer 


snares." 


"Lame  Tom  ba  wakezome,"  lie  said,  and 
his  voice  trembled. 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated — "  wakezome,  mortal 
wakezome." 

Pie  looked  past  her  at  the  closed  door,  as  if 
his  sight  could  pierce  the  wooden  panels  and 
see  the  world  that  lay  beyond,  and  into  his 
rugged  passionate  face  there  came  a  certain 
expression  of  nobleness.  "  Mayba  I  wull," 
he  began ;  but  she,  following  a  train  of 
thoughts  of  her  own,  interrupted  him. 

"  Twid  ba  the  zame  ez  if  yer  wez  to 
let  a  chile  die  for  'ee,"  she  said,  in  a  slow, 
dreamy  voice,  speaking  as  one  who  had  seen 
a  vision. 

He  thrust  her  from  him  and  rose  to  his 
feet :  "  Then  I  wull  gi'  mezulf  up  ta-rnarrer," 
he  said  ;  "  but  ez  for  'ee,"  he  added,  with  con 
centrated  bitterness,  "  yer  ba  no  wife  o'  mine 
from  this  hour,"  and  he  turned  from  her  and 
climbed  the  rickety  stairs  that  led  to  their 
bedroom.  But  he  could  not  sleep,  and  the 
slow  hours  passed  away,  and  then  he  heard 
the  door  open  softly,  and  by-and-by  her  little 


KAB   VINCH'S   WIFE  283 

cold  form  crept  into  the  bed  and  lay  down 
beside  him,  and  she,  thinking  that  he  slept, 
rested  her  head  up  against  his  shoulder  and 
sobbed  comfortlessly.  He  remained  stiff  and 
silent,  as  if  the  deafness  of  sleep  was  upon 
him ;  but  his  memory  had  travelled  back  to 
a  day  in  their  mutual  childhood,  the  day  on 
which  he  had  first  seen  her  cry.  She  had 
told  her  fortune  on  the  long  quaking-grasses, 
and  had  wept  because  Fate  had  ordained  that 
she  should  marry  a  tinker  ;  and  though  he 
had  been  but  six  years  old  at  the  time,  and 
his  mind  little  troubled  with  the  thought  of 
maidens,  yet,  because  her  weeping  had  been 
very  heavy,  he  had  promised  to  marry  her 
himself,  and  she  had  been  comforted.  And 
now  as  he  lay  angry  and  resentful  beside  her, 
the  old  distich  rang  in  his  brain — tinker, 
tailor,  soldier,  sailor,  rich-man,  poor-man, 
apothecary,  thief;  tinker,  tailor.  Then  a 
sudden  rush  of  tenderness  came  to  him,  and 
he  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  her;  but 
she  had  fallen  asleep. 

With  the  first  streak  of  dawn  he  rose  and 
drew  back  the  lattice,  so  that  the  light  fell 
upon  her  face  with  its  curves  that  tilted  up- 


284  EAB  VINCH'S  WIFE 

wards,  as  the  petals  of  some  flower  that  seeks 
its  happiness  in  the  sun,  and  he  noticed  over 
again  that  her  chestnut  hair  had  a  glint  on 
it  like  the  breast  of  a  cock  pheasant.  Her 
nightdress  had  fallen  open  at  the  neck,  mak 
ing  visible  the  curves  of  her  bosom,  rounded 
with  coming  motherhood,  and  he  remem 
bered  with  an  exceeding  bitterness  that  he 
must  also  part  from  his  child;  but  as  he 
looked  at  the  woman  lying  there,  his  face 
softened. 

"  Mayba  I  widn't  gaw  for  tu  do  lame  Torn 
no  harm,"  he  said,  "  if  her  wezn't  thet  t umbel 
meddlezome ;  tain't  dying  I  ba  a-f eard  of — 
I  reckon  I  can  die  tha  zame  ez  ony  tother 
man ;  but  I  doant  want  tu  ba  vustled l  inter 
it ;  but  hurs  a  riglar  wumman  all-over,  push 
ing  'ee  t'wards  'Eaven  wi'  hur  'eart  an'  pull 
ing  'ee  back  wi'  hur  tongue.  But  ther,  tain't 
no  good  talking ;  niayba  hur'll  larn  when  'tis 
too  late." 

He  turned  away  and  crept  softly  down  the 
old,  creaky  stairs :  below,  in  one  corner  of 
the  kitchen,  there  stood  a  big  box  in  which 
lived  his  two  ferrets,  Cross-eyes  and  Poley : 

1  Fussed. 


RAB    VINCH'S   WIFE  285 

he  gave  them  their  usual  breakfast  of  bread 
and  milk,  and  let  them  play  for  a  moment 
about  his  neck.  Then  he  took  down  his  guns, 
one  by  one,  from  the  great  beam  against 
which  they  rested  :  there  was  the  old  muzzle- 
loader  on  which  he  had  first  learnt  to  shoot, 
"  a  riglar  terror  to  kick,  but  mortal  depend- 
zome  for  a  right  and  left " ;  and  the  long 
duck-gun  that  had  carried  straight  in  its  time 
— it  was  a  family  heirloom,  and  his  great 
grandfather  had  carried  it  on  the  night  he 
had  been  pixie-led;  and,  lastly,  there  was 
Kab's  own  favourite  gun,  a  pin-fire  breech 
loader  that  had  once  belonged  to  the  young 
Squire.  Rab  took  each  gun  in  turn  and 
rubbed  the  barrel  tenderly  with  an  old  oil 
rag,  and  then  returned  it  to  its  former  rest 
ing-place;  his  big  yellow  lurcher  stood 
watching  him  with  eyes  that  in  their 
alertness  curiously  resembled  Rab's  own. 
When  he  had  finished  he  tied  up  the  dog, 
and,  going  out,  shut  the  door  of  his  cottage 
behind  him. 

A  rough  sob  rose  in  his  throat.  "  I  didn't 
reckon  her  wid  zlape  like  thic,"  he  said ;  "  but 
tlier,  women  be  alwiz  contrary." 


286  RAB  VINCIl'S   WIFE 

Up  through  the  great  woods  he  went,  for 
his  road  to  the  town  lay  that  way.  And  in 
a  certain  hedge  facing  west  a  hare  had  made 
its  seat.  Rab  had  often  tried  to  catch  it,  but 
the  hare  had  been  too  wary  for  him,  and  now 
as  he  passed  the  accustomed  spot  he  stopped 
instinctively,  and  noticed  that  the  snare  had 
been  brushed  away  but  that  the  animal  had 
escaped.  He  knelt  down  and  reset  the  wire, 
and  as  he  did  so  he  heard  footsteps,  and  look 
ing  up  he  saw  his  wife.  The  blood  rushed 
into  his  face,  but  he  assumed  an  air  of  indif 
ference.  "I  reckon  I've  alwiz  zet  thickey 
snare  a  deal  too  low,"  he  said,  bending  down 
over  his  work ;  "  a  hare  howlds  hiz  'ead  won- 
dervul  'igh  when  ha  ba  movetting  along 
unconscious.  Eh,"  he  continued,  drawing 
a  deep  breath,  "  but  hares  ba  vantysheeny  l 
baistesses ;  skaurs  o'  times  I've  ruckeed 2 
down  behind  a  bit  o'  vuzz  wi'  tha  moon 
a-glinting  a-tap  o'  me  and  cock-leert3  jest 
on  tha  creep  an'  iverything  thet  quiet 
'ee  cud  moast  a-yhear  tha  dew  a-valling; 
eh,  an'  I've  'ad  tha  gun  a-zide  o'  me  an' 

1  Showy,  handsome.  2  Stooped  down  low. 

9  Dawn. 


RAB   VINCH'S   WIFE  287 

cudn't  vire  cuz  tliey  baistesses  wez  tliic  van- 
tysheeny." 

But  she  only  saw  that  an  animal  caught  in 
such  a  snare  would  be  hung. 

"  Come  away,  Rab,"  she  cried ;  "  come 
away." 

He  looked  down  at  the  snare  meditatively. 

"  Zome  o'  'em,"  he  said,  half  to  himself, 
"  makes  a  to-do,  but  moast  die  mortal  quiet." 

"  O  Rab !  come  away,"  she  repeated  in  a 
voice  of  agony  ;  "  come  away." 

"  Ba  'ee  afraid  I  shull  ba  late  for  tha  hang 
ing  ? "  he  cried,  and  sprang  to  his  feet ;  then 
without  waiting  for  her  answer  he  rushed 
past  her  and  was  hidden  from  view  behind 
the  thick  trees. 

"  Rab  !  "  she  called,  running  after  him, 
«  Rab  !  Rab  !  Rab  !  " 

But  there  came  no  reply :  later  in  the  day 
she  learned  that  he  had  surrendered  himself 
to  the  police,  but  permission  to  see  him  was 
refused.  So  when  evening  came  she  crept 
homewards  alone  through  the  great  woods, 
and  when  she  had  reached  the  spot  where  he 
had  set  the  snare,  she  heard  a  strange  cry  : 
the  hare  had  been  caught  in  the  wire.  Cov- 


288  RAB  VINCH'S  WIFE 

ering  her  ears  with  her  hands  she  fled  away, 
yet  ever  and  ever  the  cry  followed  her. 

It  was  the  day  of  Rab?s  trial :  the  court 
was  crowded,  and  the  counsel  for  the  defence 
in  despair ;  to  all  questions  as  to  his  motive 
for  the  crime  Rab  had  maintained  a  dogged 
silence. 

"  Twezn't  no  haccident,"  he  repeated  ;  "  I 
did  it  o'puppuss." 

He  cut  short  the  trial  by  pleading  guilty, 
and  the  judge,  following  the  usual  formula, 
rose,  and  having  taken  the  black  cap,  turned 
to  the  prisoner  and  asked  if  he  had  anything 
to  say  why  the  sentence  of  death  should  not 
be  passed  upon  him. 

The  ensuing  silence  was  broken  by  the 
sound  of  a  woman's  voice.  "  Yer  honour," 
Susan  Finch  said,  for  it  was  she  who  spoke, 
"  they  tull  me  that  tha  law  ba  agin  a  woman 
testifying  for  hur  husband  ;  but  ther  ba  thic 
thet  ba  higher  than  the  law,  an'  thet  ba 
Nater ;  and  it  ain't  in  nater  thet  a  woman 
shid  zee  the  man  thet  hur  loves,  an'  who 
hur  knaws  tu  ba  hinnocent — tain't  in  nater, 
I  zay,  thet  hur  shid  zee  him  given  auver 


RAB  VINCH'S  WIFE  289 

to  death  an'  bur  not  to  up  and  zay  tha  truth. 
An'  I  tull  yer  honour  the  zame  ez  I  wid  tull 
tha  Almighty  if  I  stud  a-vor'  His  throne,  thet 
twezn't  no  murder  Rab  did  thickey  night; 
twez  an  haccident,  an7  don't  ee  iver  gaw  for 
to  believe  nought  else.  Yer  doant  knaw  Rab 
tha  zame  ez  I  do ;  uz  wez  chiles  togither,  an' 
they  thet  ba  chiles  togither  kind  o'  larns 
wun-an-tother's  hearts  unconscious.  Rab 
bain't  tha  sort  thet  takes  to  murder,  Rab 
ain't ;  ha's  tempestuous  o'  times,  an'  thic 
strong  thet  ha  doesn't  alwiz  knaw,  but  his 
heart  is  ez  tenderzome  ez  a  chil's.  I  cud  tull 
'ee  a  skaur  o'  things,  on'y  Rab  aint  wan  o' 
they  ez  likes  to  ba  boasted  of ;  but  I  ax  yer 
honour  why  ba  Rab  a-standing  a-vor'  ee  at 
this  yhere  blessid  niinit  ?  Did  the  perlice 
catch  him  ? — naw ;  then  why  ba  ha  a-stand- 
ing  ther  a-vor'  ee,  wi'  they  cruel  iron  things 
on  the  hands  o'  'em  ?  Why,  becuz  Lame 
Tom  ba  wakezome  :  ther  bain't  no  tother 
lad  thet  wid  up  an  put  tha  rope  round  hiz 
neck  rather  then  anything  wakezome  shid 
suffer  unjust.  But  ther  baint  no  call  for  a 
rope,  and  if  Rab  wid  ony  spake  ha  cud  tull 
'ee  zo  hiszulf.  An'  if  yer  ax  me  why  ha 

19 


290  EAB   VINCll'S   WIFE 

hezn't  stud  up  vrorn  tha  vust  an'  zed  it  twez 
an  haccident,  then  I  tull  'ee  it  was  becase  I 
wez  alwiz  a-worritting  o'  him  thet  kept  him 
to  zilence.  I  wez  alwiz  a-axing  questions, 
an'  ha  doan't  like  it,  an'  ha  wants  tu  larn 
me.  I've  done  a  power  o'  thinkin'  zince 
thickey  marning  Rab  gi'ed  hiszulf  up,  an' 
I've  reckoned  it  all  out.  I  wez  too  mortal 
anxious  tu  show  him  tha  way,  an'  Rab  ain't 
no  wumman  tu  ba  showed  things.  Ha  likes 
tu  do  hiz  right  hiz  own  way — ha  doan't  want 
no  wan  tu  larn  him  ;  an'  I  wez  alwiz  a-zay- 
ing,  yer  dursn't  do  thic  an'  yer  must  do  thet, 
zo  ha  ba  jest  a-larning  o'  me  ;  but,  O  Rab  !  " 
she  ended,  in  a  voice  of  passionate  entreaty, 
turning  to  him,  "I've  larned,  I've  lamed; 
ony  tull  'em — tull  'em." 

When  the  woman  ceased  speaking  a  silence 
fell  upon  the  court,  and  the  eyes  of  all  there 
turned  to  the  prisoner.  Rab's  harsh  obstinate 
face  had  grown  grey  beneath  the  tanned  skin ; 
his  lips,  pressed  one  on  the  other  with  the 
grip  of  a  vice,  looked  as  if  no  power  could 
ever  force  them  to  unclose  :  then  his  eyes 
met  those  of  his  wife,  and  with  a  convulsive 
effort  he  spoke.  "  'Twez  done  temperzome," 


KAB  VINCH'S  WIFE  291 

he  exclaimed,  brokenly — "  powerful  temper- 
zome;  lia  said  thic  thet  wez  baisteous  o' 
hur,"  and  Kab  pointed  with  his  hand  in  the 
direction  of  his  wife.  "  Mayba,"  he  con 
tinued,  huskily,  "  if  yer  cud  find  Josh  Tuck- 
itt,  ha  cud  make  things  look  a  bit  better 
for  me." 


WIDDER    VLINT 


WIDDER   VLINT 

¥IDDER  VLINT'S  cottage  stud  at  the 
tap  o'  the  vullage,  wi'  a  banging  girt 
vlight  o'  staps  a-vor  the  door.  The  staps 
wez  brauken  an'  mortal  zlippeiy  when  it 
rained ;  but  thet  wezn't  here  nor  there,  cuz 
vew  folks  iver  came  up  'em.  Widder  Vlint, 
hur  wez  disrespactit  in  the  vullage,  'aving 
borned  dree  drunkards,  tho'  the  naybours  wez 
kind  o'  zorry  vor  hur  now  an'  agin  ;  an'  when 
hur  zon  Josh  wez  drawed  vrom  hiz  hoss  an' 
brauk  hiz  neck,  they  jest  zed  that  "  wan  o7 
the  tu  wez  drunk,"  an'  left  folk  to  judge 
at  ween  the  man  an'  the  mare. 

Wan  arternoon  I  d rapped  in  to  zee  how 
hur  wez  getting  on,  cuz  thcr  wez  a  moast 
kincliddlin' 1  zmell  o'  fried  bacon  cooming  droo 
the  door.  The  table  wez  layed  for  tay,  zo  I 
zat  mezulf  down.  I  wez  a  kind  o'  relation  o' 
Widder  Vlint's,  tho'  I  didn't  make  much  o' 


1  Enticing. 
293 


296  WIDDEB   VLINT 

it  'zept  at  mait  times  an'  zich,  cuz  o'  hur  baing 
so  mortal  disrespactit.  It  zeeined  to  me  hur 
didn't  take  anuir*  count  o'  the  'pinion  o'  the 
vullage,  hur  wez  thic  tumble  zet  on  her  chil- 
der,  women  not  'aving  no  discarnment  in  zich 
things.  Wull,  I  'adn't  bin  vive  minets  inzide 
the  door  vor  hur  got  talkin'  o'  'em,  tho'  I 
didn't  vind  no  speshul  intrast  in  the  subject 
mezulf. 

"  I've  a  deal  to  be  thankvul  vor,  a  deal," 
hur  zed.  "  Ther  wez  Tummas,  now," — then 
hur  stapped  quat 1 ;  I  reckon  'twez  'ard  even 
vor  hur  to  vind  anything  vavourzome  to  zay 
o'  Tummas.  "  Wull,"  hur  dawdled  on,  "  ha 
had  a  windervul  'ead  o'  hair,  had  Tummas. 
Pore  lad  !  ha  wez  alwez  a  good  lad  to  me ; 
ha  braut  me  the  vurst  shillun  that  iver  ha 
arned,  an'  thin  ha  kinder  tuk  it  back.  Ha 
aimed  high,  did  Tummas,  tho'  maybe  ha 
didn't  alwez  raitch." 

Hur  wez  zilent  a  minet  an'  tarned  the  bacon 
in  the  pan  where  twez  spittin'  an'  zmellin' 
moast  amazin'  tasty. 

"  Then  there  wez  Josh,"  hur  contineed,  "  ha 
thet  wez  drawed  vrom  hiz  hoss  an'  brauk  hiz 

1  Plump. 


WIDDER   VLINT  297 

neck  Ha  had  a  wondervul  kindiddlin  zmile  o' 
times  had  Josh,  an'  when  they  braut  him  'ome 
to  me  the  last  time  an'  layed  him  down  in  the 
corner  o'  the  kitchen,  thickey  zmile  wez  on 
his  vace  kind  o'  pacevul  like.  I  stapped  a-zide 
him  droo  the  night;  I  thought  maybe  the 
pore  chil'  might  find  it  lonesome  out  ther  wi' 
iverything  so  noo.  I  tooked  his  hand  cuz 
twez  dark  vust  a-long,  an'  Josh  wez  alwez 
mortal  a-feardt  o'  the  dark.  An'  I  kind  o' 
thought  ez  how  ha  wez  ez  a  little  lad,  I 
knawed  ha  hadn't  alwez  acted  zactly  vor  the 
best  zince  he  had  grawed  to  be  a  man.  The 
moon  riz  an'  staled  in  upon  him  an'  ha  zmiled 
back  at  hur,  an'  twez  a  tumble  pacevul  zmile 
thic  ha  guved  hur.  An'  thin  ther  coomed  to 
me  they  words  vrom  the  Buk,  '  Gaw  in  pace, 
vor  thy  zins  be  vorguved  to  'ee.'  An'  I  veil 
a-sobbing,  quiet-like,  cuz  I  didn't  want  to  dis- 
tarb  him,  pore  lamb,  but  ha  jest  zmiled  on. 
The  pace  o'  the  Laurd  ain't  like  our  pace,  it 
ain't  to  be  brauk,  it  ain't  to  be  brauk." 

Hur  stapped  short  an'  wan  banging  girt 
tear  fell  strat  in  the  pan.  I  thort  twez  a 
mortal  pity  to  spile  good  bacon  zo,  speshul 
ez  Josh  wrez  the  biggest  rapscallion  thet  ever 


298  WIDDER   VLINT 

walked ;  but  I  cudn't  help  baing  a  bit  zorry 
vor  the  pore  owld  dumman,  cuz  'tis  the  way 
wi7  women  to  git  tumble  vond  o'  trash. 

"  Jesse  was  the  next  to  gaw,"  hur  zed,  after 
hur  had  kind  o'  come  to  hurself  like,  "  my 
little  lad  dead  now  along  o'  the  rast !  "  Hur 
alwez  called  Jesse  "  hur  little  lad,"  tho'  ha  wuz 
vull  sax  veefc  high  an*  weighed  nigh  on  vour- 
teen  stone ;  but  women  ain't  got  no  discrim 
ination  in  zich  things. 

"  Wull,  wull,"  hur  ended  up,  "  I've  only 
Dave  luft  now,  but  ha  be  a  vine  upstanding 
lad,  an'  I've  a  deal  to  be  thankvul  vor,  a 
deal." 

Then  the  big  clock  in  the  corner  struck  sax, 
an'  Dave  coomed  in,  an'  I  wez  moast  mortal 
glad  to  see  him,  cuz  the  bacon  wez  jest  ready 
to  be  dished,  an'  I  niver  cud  a-bear  things 
burnt  to  a  cinder.  "  Moather,"  ha  zed  ez  ha 
hunged  up  hiz  tools  behind  the  door,  u'ee 
have  got  on  thickey  boots  thet  coom  zo  hard 
on  yer  little  taw." 

"  Wull,  Dave,  lad,"  hur  answered,  "I  wez 
a  gwaying  to  buy  a  noo  pair  ez  I  promised 
'ee  I  wid,  only  I  erned1  up  agin  Maister 

'Ran. 


WIDDER   VLINT  299 

Parsons,  lia  ez  kapes  the  little  grocer's  shap 
down  the  lower  end  o'  the  vullage,  an'  ha  zed 
ez  how  ha  had  got  a  powerzome  noo  tay  in,  cuz 
I  towld  him  ez  how  yer  didn't  vind  anuff 
scratt 1  in  thickey  last  thet  uz  'ad,  zo  I  thort 
I  wud  jest  buy  a  pun  an'  let  the  boots  bide 
a  bit." 

"  Wull,  moather,"  ha  zed  ez  ha  pulled  his 
cheer  up  to  the  table,  "  I  do  zeem  a  moast 
winder vul  'and  at  rizzing  a  tharst,  but  zome- 
how" — an'  ha  pushed  hiz  cup  acrass  to  be 
vulled  airin — "  it  zeems  ez  if  ther  wez  thic  in 

J:5 

the  tharst  thet  tay  didn't  git  houldt  of,  but 
'tis  a  powerzome  gud  tay,  an'  moast  vull  o' 
scratt  all-the-zame." 

I  saw  hur  look  zmart  down  at  hiz  plate — 
ha  hadn't  tiched  a  bit  o'  victuals,  ony  drunk 
away  ez  if  his  throat  wez  a  red  'ot  coal.  Ton 
me  Zain,  I  cud  amoast  yhear  it  fizz  where  I 
zat. 

"  Ate  a  bit  o'  bacon  like  a  gud  chil',"  hur 
zed,  kindiddlin'  like ;  "  'tis  from  the  ztreaky 
end." 

"  It  zmells  windervul  tasty,  moather,"  ha 
answered,  "  an'  I  wid  dearly  like  a  bit  o'  it 

1  Scrape. 


300  WIDDER   VLINT 

cold  ta-marrer;  but  the  tay  iz  zo  powerzome 
gud,  I  doan't  zeem  to  care  for  naught  ulse." 

Later  on,  when  the  table  had  been  cleared 
an'  iverything  made  vitty,1  uz  all  drawed  our 
cheers  up  to  the  vire.  Widder  Vlint  hur 
tooked  hur  knittin'  vrom  the  drawer  in  the 
owld  dresser,  an'  when  I  yhear'd  thickey 
naydles  clacking  away,  I  claused  my  eyes  an' 
reckoned  I  wud  gaw  to  slape.  After  a  bit 
Dave  ha  turned  to  the  owld  dumman — 

"  Moather,"  ha  zed,  "  do  ?ee  dap  back  on 
thic  night  when  pore  Jesse  got  kind  o'  mad 
wi'  tha  drink  an'  shat  hizsulf,  an'  how  yer  an' 
me  wint  out  'and  in  'and  an'  vound  him,  an' 
yer  tarned  to  me  an'  zed,  '  I've  ony  thee  luft 
now,  Dave ' ;  an'  I  tooked  pore  Jesse's  hand 
an'  layed  it  atween  yers  an'  mine,  an'  zwore 
thet  I  wid  niver  touch  strong  drink,  an'  if  I 
had  to  die  vor  it  I  wid  die  game  ?  Moather, 
moather,"  he  ended  up  kind  o'  sharp  like,  "  I 
reckon  the  drink  'ull  'ave  me  yet." 

Hur  put  hur  arms  round  him  an'  drawed 
hiz  head  down  upon  hur  lap,  ez  maybe  hur 
had  done  many  times  a-vor  when  ha  wez  a 
little  lad. 

1  Eight. 


WIDDER   VLINT  301 

"  Pore  lamb  !  "  hur  zed,  "  pore  lamb  !  " 
Arter  a  bit  hur  contineed,  "Dave,"  hur 
zed,  "  do  'ee  mind  on  the  pore  widdy  wuman 
in  the  Buk,  an'  how  she  guved  her  mite  to 
the  Laurd,  an  tho'  ther  wez  urch1  volks 
alongside  o'  hur  ez  guved  gorgeus  gufts,  yit 
the  Laurd  Ha  valleyed  the  mite  moast.  An' 
zo  I  reckon  'tiz  wi'  uz — 'tain't  wat  uz  does, 
but  wat  uz  tries  to  do,  that  the  Laurd  vallys, 
an'  thin  Ha  kind  o'  makes  up  the  rast  Hiz- 
sulf." 

But  Dave  ha  ony  gripped  howldt  o'  the 
pore  dumman  more  tight  like.  "  Moather, 
moather,"  ha  zed,  "spose  I  shudn't  die 
game  ? " 

Hur  rinned  hur  vingers  droo  hiz  hair  kind 
o'  tender  vashion,  but  hur  didn't  zay  naught. 
I  reckon  mezulf  hur  wez  thunkin'  thet  'twad 
be  wi'  ha  the  zame  ez  'twez  wi'  the  rast  o' 


'em. 


"  Zay  zommat,  moather,  zay  zommat,"  ha 
axed. 

Hur  looked  away  acrass  hiz  hed  inter  the 
vire,  ez  if  hur  zaw  zoniethin'  mazin'  particu 
lar  down  aiming  the  coals. 

1  Rick. 


302  WIDDEK   VLIKT 

"  Dave,"  hur  answered,  kind  o'  zlovv,  "  when 
vust  I  coomed  to  be  disrespactit  in  the  vul- 
lage,  an7  folks  drawed  it  at  me  that  I  had 
horned  dree  drunkards,  it  zeemed  a  bit  hard, 
tho'  I  cudn't  gaw  vor  to  lay  blame  on  the 
lads.  Then  Tunimas  wez  tuk,  an7  the  nay- 
bours  wez  a  bit  sniffy  an'  thin.  Claus  on 
tap  o'  ha,  pore  Josh  ha  brauk  his  neck,  an' 
tho'  the  folks  coomed  to  the  vuneral,  they 
kind  o'  made  a  vavour  o'  it.  Wull,  then, 
Jesse  ha  shat  hizsulf,  an'  I  bought  the  hat 
bands  an'  gluves,  an'  they  wez  real  gud  uns 
too,  but  no  wan  wez  ther  to  put  'em  on,  an' 
uz  waited  an'  they  niver  coomed,  zo  yer  an'  I 
uz  wint  on  a-lone.  An'  ez  I  walked  a-long- 
side  o'  'ee  Dave,  the  strait  it  niver  seemed  zo 
long  a-vor  or  the  vullage  zo  full  o'  folk. 
An'  when  I  passed  thickey  hauses,  I  kinder 
zed  to  mezulf  ain't  ther  wan  pusson  in  'ee 
that  wull  coom  out  an'  voller  me  lad.  Then 
uz  tarned  the  corner  where  Mat  Mucksey's 
hause  stands,  an'  I  thought  he  wud  coom 
surely,  vor  they  played  togither  ez  little  lads. 
An'  ha  stud  at  the  winder  an'  looked  out,  an' 
I  kind  o'  gripped  howldt  o'  him  wi'  my  eyes. 
I  thort  maybe  the  Laurd  wud  let  me  draw 


WIDDER   VLINT  303 

him  so,  but  twezn't  to  be.  Then  me  heart 
wez  anger' t  that  they  shud  sarve  my  boy  zo, 
my  lamb,  my  little  lad,  my  Jesse,  an'  I  didn't 
yhear  naught  o'  the  sarvice,  tho'  ther  be 
terrible  comforting  words  in  it,  but  I  tooked 
my  boy  an'  layed  him  ther  on  the  disrespactit 
north  zide,  where  the  zun  only  creeps  round 
o'  whiles ;  but  maybe  the  Laurd  will  think 
on  thic  when  the  Jidgment  day  cooms  an'  riz 
him  tenderer  accordin'.  An'  Dave,  why  shud 
yer  want  to  be  more  than  ha,  pore  lamb,  pore 
lamb  ? — wezn't  ha  the  uldest,  an'  why  shud 
yer  want  to  make  yerzulf  higher  ?  " 

Dave  ha  looked  up  in  hur  vace,  but  hur 
kind  o'  tarned  her  eyes  tother  way. 

"  Moather,"  ha  zed,  "  yer  wudn't  'ave  me 
die  a  drunkard,  surely  ?  " 

But  hur  didn't  answer  ha  at  all. 

"  Moather,  moather,"  ha  zed. 

"  Dave,"  hur  zed,  "  didn't  I  borne  'ee  all, 
didn't  'ee  all  lay  upon  my  brast,  an'  ain't  'ee 
all  my  childer,  an'  why  shud  wan  gaw  vor  to 
make  hizsulf  higher  than  tothers  ?  " 

Dave  ha  drapped  hiz  head  down  on  hur 
knay,  an'  the  kitchen  wez  zilencevul. 

At  last   ha   lifted  up  hiz  vace,  an'  twez 


304  WIDDER   VLINT 

a  windervul  pitying  luk  ha  gived  her. 
"  Moather,"  ha  zed,  "  I  reckon  uz  zons  'ave 
brought  'ee  a  power  o'  zarrar."  l 

But  hur  answered  kind  o'  random  like. 
"  Dave,"  hur  zed,  "  God  vorgive  me  an'  make 
'ee  do  wat  iz  vitty." 

When  the  winter  coomed  round,  Widder 
Vlint  hur  kind  o'  veil  togither.  The  riay- 
bours  zed,  "  Hur  hadn't  no  more  spirit  than 
a  warm,  an'  vor  sich  dreary  some  folk  warms 
wez  the  best  company."  Then  hur  tooked  to 
hur  bed,  an'  wan  Vriday  marning  hur  wez 
thet  bad  Dave  didn't  gaw  to  hiz  work,  but 
zat  azide  hur  droo  the  day,  an'  I  kind  o'  kapt 
him  company.  Hur  dauzed  a  bit,  an'  when 
hur  wauk  up  Dave  axed  hur  if  hur  had  any 
pain. 

"  No,  lad,"  hur  answered,  "  wangery,2  tur- 
rible  wangery,  thics  all." 

Just  about  vour  o'  the  clock  hur  zeerned  a 
bit  brighter. 

"  Dave,"  hur  zed,  u  I  reckon  I  wid  like  a 
chapter  vrom  the  Buk." 

"  Shall  I  vetch  it,  moather  ?  "  he  axed. 
1  Sorrow.  a  Tired. 


WIDDEK  VLINT  305 

"  No,  lad,"  she  zed.  "  I  misremembered  it 
wez  down-stairs ;  maybe  yer  cud  zay  a  pray 
er?" 

"I  ony  knaws  'Our  Vather '  an'  the 
Blessin',  moather,"  he  answered. 

"Then  I  reckon  'tiz  the  Blessin'  I  wull 
'ave,"  she  zed  ;  "  'tiz  a  bootivul  zaying,  i  Vor 
wat  us  'ave  recaved  ' — zay  on,  lad." 

"The  Laurd  make  uz  truly  thankvul," 
Dave  ended. 

"  An'  uz  'ave  'ad  a  deal  to  be  thankvul  vor, 
a  deal,"  hur  zed. 

But  Dave  ha  jest  zat  ther  like  a  stone  an' 
didn't  zay  naught. 

"  Zay,  lad,  zay,"  hur  axed,  kind  o'  painvul. 

Thin  ha  tooked  hur  hands,  mazing  owld  an' 

knotted  hands  they  wez,  ha  tooked  'em  in  hiz 

an'  ha  kneeled  azide  the  bed  an'  put  his  vace 

down  agin  hur  heart. 

"  Moather,  moather,"  he  zed,  "  God  guved 
me  thee." 

Hur  only  spoke  wance  after  thic.  "  Lay 
me  zide  o'  Jesse,"  hur  zed ;  "  I  reckon  the 
little  lad  'ull  be  warmer  along  o'  hiz 
moather." 


20 


DAVE 


DAVE 

QPEAWLING  down  one  hill  and  half-way 
U  up  another  was  a  little  village;  at  the 
corner  of  its  main  street  stood  the  White  Lion 
Inn.  The  sun  poured  yellow  light  through 
the  bar  windows  on  to  the  sanded  floor,  and 
on  the  figures  of  two  men  who  sat  talking  at 
a  table. 

"  I  tell  you  he's  sweet  on  my  cousin  Phoebe, 
damn  him,"  exclaimed  the  younger  man, 
bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 

"  And  what's  that  got  to  say  to  it  ?  "  replied 
the  other,  in  a  slow,  heavy  voice.  "  Josh 
Tuckett  'ull  never  see  no  darter  o'  his  married 
to  a  drunkard." 

"  Dave  ain't  no  drunkard ;  he  takes  his 
glass  and  goes  out.  Dang  him,  I  wish  he 


wor." 


The  elder  man  leant  forward  and  caught 
hold  of  the  button  of  his  companion's  coat. 

309 


310  DAVE 

"  Answer  me  this,  Tummas  Rod,"  he  said, 
"didn't  Ms  father  die  o'  drink?" 

"  Ay,  sure." 

11  And  his  grandfather  afore  him  ? " 

"  Ay,  certain." 

"Bain't  his  three  brothers  lying  in  the 
churchyard  at  this  very  minnit  reg'lar  soak 
ing  the  place  wi'  spirits;  the  grass  niver 
growed  casual  over  their  graves  the  same  as 
it  did  over  t'other  folks'." 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  wi'  Dave  ? " 

"Why,  begore,  he'll  come  to  the  like  sooner 
or  later,  mark  my  words  if  he  don't.  He's 
a  drunkard  now — at  heart.  Scores  o'  times 
I've  reckoned  to  hear  his  throat  split  and 
crack  when  the  drink  dizzies  down  it." 

A  heavy  flush  rose  to  Rod's  face.  "  And 
may  it ;  the  sooner  the  better,"  he  said. 

"  You  and  he  were  thick  anuff  as  boys," 
replied  the  old  man,  rising,  and  regarding 
him  curiously. 

Rod  turned  away  and  went  back  to  the 
bar.  "  Didn't  I  tell  'ee  that  he  be  sweet  on 
my  cousin  and  her  on  him,"  he  answered,  in 
a  sullen  voice. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps,  and  Dave 


DAVE  311 

entered,  the  old  man  taking  his  departure  at 
the  same  time.  Rod  glanced  with  quick  scru 
tiny  at  the  newcomer's  gaunt  but  boyish  face, 
as,  dropping  his  bag  of  tools,  he  flung  sixpence 
on  the  counter. 

"A  half-and-half,  Tom,"  he  said.  "My 
throat  ba  reglar  dring'd  l  wi'  thirst." 

The  flush  on  Rod's  face  receded,  leaving  it 
ash-grey.  He  filled  a  small  glass  to  the  brim 
with  spirits,  and  pushed  it  across  the  bar. 
Dave  swallowed  the  contents  at  a  gulp,  and 
stood,  fingering  the  glass  nervously. 

"  Take  another  nip,"  said  Rod. 

"  Naw,  wan  ba  anuff,  thank  'ee." 

"  Come,  I'll  stand  yer." 

Dave's  thin  white  face  reddened.  "I 
dursn't,"  he  said,  turning  away  and  picking 
up  his  bag  of  tools. 

The  innkeeper  burst  into  a  rough  laugh. 
"  You  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  maid  before  her 
first  kiss,  terrible  afraid,  but  wonderful  will 
ing,"  he  replied.  "  Come,"  he  urged,  un 
steadily,  "drink  me  success  to  something  I've 
set  my  mind  on." 

There  was  silence  a  moment.     "  Ba  it  zum- 

1  Squeezed  up. 


312  DAVE 

mat    pertikler    spesb.il?"    Dave    asked    at 
length. 

"  I  told  'ee  I'd  set  my  mind  on  it." 
"  Drink  ba  kindiddling  temptsome,"  Dave 
muttered,  half  to  himself,  as  he  watched  Rod 
fill  two  glasses  with  spirits.  "Wull,"  he 
added,  gulping  down  the  spirits  with  fever 
ish  impatience,  "  may  'ee  git  wat  'ee  want  and 


more." 


Rod  looked  at  him  a  moment,  his  lips 
twitching :  "  To  the  damnation  of  Dave 
Vlint,  body  and  soul ! "  he  exclaimed,  and 
draining  the  glass,  flung  it  across  the  bar  at 
the  wall  opposite.  For  a  moment  the  two 
men  regarded  each  other  in  silence;  then 
Dave  turned  on  his  heel,  halted  a  moment  at 
the  door,  and  glanced  back, — "  Did  'ee  mean 
they  wuds  ?  "  he  said. 

"Twor  nort  but  a  bit  o'  fun,"  Rod  an 
swered,  forcing  a  laugh. 

"  Ther  ain't  nort  speshil  vantysheeny 1  in 
sich  jokes,"  replied  Dave,  and  going  out  he 
left  Rod  alone.  He  made  his  way  through 
the  street,  and  up  the  hill  behind  the  village, 
where  the  pine-trees  stood  massing  them- 
Showy. 


DAVE  313 

selves  against  the  blue  sky  like  heavy  blue- 
green  clouds.  Leaving  the  road,  he  entered 
the  wood  by  a  footpath.  It  was  autumn : 
the  ground  was  strewn  with  cones ;  overhead 
the  wind  soughed  with  the  sound  of  the  sea. 
Standing  beside  a  broken  stile  was  a  girl ; 
her  chestnut  hair,  escaping  from  the  kerchief 
that  bound  it,  rippled  and  curled  about  her 
neck  and  forehead.  Dave  started  when  he 
saw  her,  and  advanced  more  slowly.  She 
came  towards  him,  and  they  stood  together : 
she  was  not  tall,  "  about  as  high  as  his 
heart." 

"  What's  come  to  'ee  Dave !  "  she  exclaimed, 
in  a  soft,  guttural  voice ;  "  it's  dree  weeks 
since  you've  bin  a-nigh  me." 

He  was  silent,  averting  his  eyes  as  if  he 
were  afraid  to  look  into  hers. 

"  You  made  me  love  'ee,  you  made  me  love 
'ee,"  she  burst  out,  her  voice  trembling ;  "  and 
now— 

"Phoebe,  lass,  'tis  better  that  I  bide 
away." 

"  You  shud  'ave  thought  o'  that  afore,"  she 
said,  bitterly. 

"Ay,  sartin  I  shud." 


314  DAVE 

She  caught  hold  of  the  two  lapels  of  his 
coat, — "  Dave,  Dave,"  she  cried,  "  you  don't 
love  me  arter  all ;  and  you  swore  me  true 
down  by  the  Wishing  Well." 

"  I  didn't  love  'ee  then  the  zame  as  I  do 
now  by  a  deal,"  he  answered,  taking  her 
hands  in  his. 

"  Oh  lad,  I  can't  fathom  'ee,"  she  said,  with 
a  sob. 

"Sweetheart,  'tis  the  drink  I'm  afeard  of; 
'twull  have  me  wan  day  like  did  my  vather 
and  brothers  afore  me." 

"But  I  bain' t  afeard." 

"  I  might  be  cruel  hard  on  'ee,  lass,"  he 
said,  pressing  her  hands  tight  against  his 
broad  chest.  "  A  man  can't  answer  for  his- 
sulf  when  the  drink's  upon  him." 

Her  dark  grey  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "  But 
I  bain't  afeard,  Dave,"  she  reiterated.  "I 
bain't  afeard." 

He  looked  at  her  with  great  tenderness. 
"  I  dursn't,  dear  heart ;  I  dursn't,"  he  said, 
and  his  voice  shook. 

"  Ther  wud  ba  the  times  atween  whiles," 
she  urged. 

Turning  from  her,  he  caught  hold  of  a  tree- 


DAVE  315 

bough  and  steadied  himself.  "Lass,  lass, 
don't  put  me  in  mind  o'  'em." 

"  You  ain't  loving  me  the  zame  as  you  did, 
or  'ee  wudn't  need  no  minding,"  she  exclaimed, 
brokenly.  "  And  I  ain't  fallen  off  in  looks." 
She  came  round  the  tree,  stood  in  front  of 
him,  and  unbinding  her  kerchief,  shook  her 
thick  chestnut  hair  about  her  shoulders. 
"  See,  Dave,"  she  continued,  "  it's  vine  and 
long  for  all  it  loses  in  the  curl ;  and  my  voot 
too,  Dave," — she  kicked  ofE  her  shoe, — "  'tis 
wonderful  arched,  and  a  deal  smaller  than 
the  young  ladies'  up  to  the  great  House. 
My  arms,  Dave," — she  slipped  back  her 
sleeve, — "they  might  be  a  chile's,  they're 
that  bedimpled." 

Stopping  abruptly,  she  burst  into  tears, — 
"  Oh,  lad,  lad,"  she  sobbed,  "  you  bain't  look 
ing,  you  bain't  looking." 

He  let  go  the  branch  of  the  tree,  took  her 
in  his  arms,  and  drew  her  close  up  against 
his  breast.  He  put  back  her  head  with 
gentle  force,  and  kissed  her  mouth  and  eyes, 
her  throat  and  bosom.  As  they  stood  molten 
in  one  mould,  there  came  down  the  wind 
the  sound  of  children's  laughter :  hearing  it, 


316  DAVE 

the  man  and  woman  fell  trembling,  then 
apart. 

They  stood  staring  at  each  other  like  two 
people  guilty  of  a  crime. 

"There  ba  them  that  might  ba  born  arter 
us,"  he  said,  hoarsely. 

She  watched  the  sudden  hardening  of  his 
mouth.  "  Must  us  mind  on  'em? "  she  plead 
ed — "  must  us  mind  on  'em  ?  " 

"  I  cud  niver  fo'ce  no  chile  o'  ours  to  bear 
wat  I've  bin  fo'ced  to  bear,"  he  answered; 
"  'twad  ba  devil's  wark — I  cudn't  do  it." 

Her  face  grew  white  and  hopeless.  "I 
can't  feel  for  the  childer,  I  ain't  no  mother 
yet,"  she  said,  brokenly. 

Desire  shook  him  :  he  looked  at  her  slight 
form  that  seemed  to  tremble  into  woman 
hood  before  his  eyes,  then,  with  an  abrupt 
cry,  he  turned  and  left  her. 

She  flung  herself  down  and  wept, — 
through  the  trees  her  wailing  followed  him, 
yet  his  heart  cried  out  so  loudly  that  he 
knew  not  if  the  wailing  came  from  her  lips 
or  his  own.  Long  he  wandered  in  the  wood, 
but  when  night  fell  returned  again  to  his 
cottage.  Pushing  open  the  door,  the  moon- 


DAVE  317 

light  streaming  in  after  him,  he  entered  the 
small  kitchen.  On  the  table,  the  cork  with 
drawn,  was  a  bottle  of  spirits, — the  air 
reeled  with  the  smell  of  it.  He  did  not 
know  whose  hand  had  placed  the  bottle 
there,  but  his  harsh  thirst  demanded  slak 
ing,  and  forced  him  forward.  Clutching  at 
his  throat,  striving  to  tear  the  thirst  from  it, 
he  advanced — the  bottle  glistening  in  the 
moonlight,  looking  as  if  it  were  alive.  He 
cast  an  agonised  glance  round  the  walls,  seek 
ing  help  from  familiar  things,  and  his  eyes 
fell  on  his  gun.  A  sob  of  relief  broke  from 
him :  he  took  down  the  gun,  loaded  it  hur 
riedly,  the  smell  of  the  spirits  dripping  on  to 
his  lips,  he  licking  it  down.  He  snatched 
the  bottle  from  the  table,  shouldered  his  gun, 
and  went  out, — up  through  the  woods,  past 
the  broken  stile,  where  the  coarse  grass  lay 
pressed  close  to  the  earth  and  Phcebe  had 
flung  herself  down  and  wept.  With  averted 
face  he  passed  the  spot,  and  entered  deep 
into  the  heart  of  the  wood.  At  last  he 
stopped  :  about  him  the  trees  grew  close  and 
thick,  no  eye  but  God's  could  see  his  shame. 
He  leant  his  gun  up  against  a  branch ;  the 


318  DAVE 

moonlight  edged  itself  between  the  trees, 
and  he  held  the  bottle  up  to  it. 

"  So  yer  have  got  the  best  o'  me  at  last," 
he  said, — "  yer  have  got  the  best  o'  me  at 
last." 

The  bottle  glistened  :  he  brought  it  nearer 
his  lips,  his  thirst  pressed  for  quenching,  the 
thirst  that  he  would  slake  before  he  shot 
himself. 

"  Yer  smiling  devil,"  he  burst  out,  with 
sudden  fierceness,  "  yer  reckon  to  catch  me, 
do'ee.  No,  by  hell!  yer  don't;  I'll  die 
wi'out  tasting  'ee,"  and  he  dashed  the  bottle 
into  fragments  at  his  feet.  A  moment  later 
he  had  flung  himself  upon  the  ground,  striv 
ing  to  lick  up  the  spirits  with  his  tongue. 

"  Dog  that  I  ba,  dog  that  I  ba,"  he  sobbed. 
"No  better  than  a  dog — no  better  than  a 
dog." 

Sick  with  shame  and  horror,  he  regained 
his  feet :  he  took  a  piece  of  cord  from  his 
pocket,  made  a  loop  in  it,  attaching  one  end 
to  the  trigger  of  the  gun.  He  pressed  the 
cold  steel  barrel  up  against  his  hot  beating 
heart,  and  placed  his  foot  in  the  loop.  "  A 
dog's  death  for  a  dog,"  he  muttered. 


DAVE  319 

The  moonlight  shone  on  him,  on  the  gun, 
and  on  the  broken  bottle  at  his  feet :  the 
glistening  glass  attracted  him  and  he  stared 
at  it,  fresh  thoughts  crowding  his  brain.  A 
tremor  ran  through  him  :  raising  his  eyes,  he 
fixed  them  on  the  moonlit  heavens  and  grey 
wind-spun  clouds.  "  Ther  ba  zommat  in  me 
a'zide  the  dog,"  he  said,  slowly.  "  Ay,  be- 
gore,  I'll  live  game,  I'll  zee  it  droo,"  and 
drawing  himself  together,  he  turned  his  face 
once  more  on  life. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE    OF    25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


1933 


NOV  6 


'941 ft 


LD  21-50m-l,'3J 


eKeats,G, 

Life  is  JLife,  by 
"ack 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


(JE' •      t 

-iUC 
1609  TELEGRAPH  AVF    OAI 


•  -111! 


. 


